


Devil Take The Hindmost

by OperaGoose



Series: Old FFNet Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also featuring delusion!Sherlock, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/OperaGoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angst-filled sequel to Shouldn't Be My Idea of Fun (But It Is).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil Take The Hindmost

Title: **Devil Take The Hindmost**   
Category: TV Shows » Sherlock   
Author: OperaGoose   
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T   
Genre: Angst/Romance   
Published: 09-04-11, Updated: 09-04-11   
Chapters: 1, Words: 32,485 

* * *

**Chapter 1: Chapter 1**

* * *

Title: **Devil Take The Hindmost**   
Category: TV Shows » Sherlock   
Author: OperaGoose   
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T   
Genre: Angst/Romance   
Published: 09-21-10, Updated: 10-27-10   
Chapters: 17, Words: 40,001 

**Chapter 1: Surveilance**

Six months and John Watson's first real sight of Sherlock was on a high-definition screen. He thought of everything that had led to that moment, and didn't quite know how to feel. Sherlock was bent over a lab desk, using a pipette to add to a chemical solution. There was a slight explosion and John knew Sherlock was not coping. 

The Sherlock he had known would have given an exclamation of delight, at the very least he would twist dehydrated lips into a pleased grin. This Sherlock merely straightened up and turned his back towards the camera. The shot changed and showed the consulting detective picking up his coat and pulling it on. 

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as much as he could anyway. At the close distance, the doctor noticed how gaunt he was, how unhealthy he looked. 

"Doesn't look good, does he?" A childish voice asked in John's ear. 

The doctor grunted and shifted away from the hot breath against his neck. The leather straps restraining him pinched against his skin and he exhaled sharply through his nose. 

Well-buffed nails typed a few words on a keyboard, and an expensive living room came into view. "Our favourite consulting detective will go there in aproximately two hundred and twenty six minutes. Make yourself comfortable, not long to go now before the game begins." 

John screamed angrily, jerking against the straps. He bit down on the gag in his mouth and blew a sharp breath through his nostrils as a sharp pain shot through his leg. A nerve-grating laugh echoed through the room followed by the resounding bang of the door John couldn't see. 

John clenched his eyes shut and felt futile tears rolling down his sun-ravaged cheeks. He should've known from the instant Sherlock had taken over his life that one day he would find himself in a situation like this: held hostage by a criminal mastermind to play pawn in a battle of the wills. He'd hoped getting away from Sherlock would stop all that - he really ought to have known better. He couldn't escape Sherlock - that man was in his head. 

"You're just going to sit there?" An unimpressed voice asked. John cracked his eyes open and rolled his head slightly. A familiar face scowled at him from beside the unchanging screen. John glared balefully at the figment of Sherlock Holmes leaning against the wall. "Oh, right - you're gagged." 

John turned his head away. He knew the man he saw wasn't real - his Sherlock couldn't compare with the real one. He couldn't possess the consulting detective's superior intellect because John couldn't comprehend it - let alone mimic it. No, all his dellusion could do was state the obvious, berate him and offer comfort. 

It was the last point that hurt the most. The real Sherlock had done that precious few times, but John's mind had progressed his comforting side. In his more bitter moods, he blamed the last real conversation he'd had with the consulting detective. Sherlock had done something (he couldn't remember exactly what it was any more), but there had been some yelling (and a one-sided pillow fight) and then the detective had revealed that he had believed that they were dating for months. 

John, in the loneliness of Afghanistan and the last drug-addled months held hostage, had taken that idea and run with it. Somewhere after John's denial of being gay and the knowledge that the real man wouldn't be so foolish, the doctor's mind had created a version of Sherlock that was devotedly in love with him. When it suited him, anyway - sometimes his Sherlock was cold and stubborn. 

Like now. Sherlock glared at him, posture stiff. His eyes were judging, and his mouth was set in a firm line. John turned his face away, eyes locking back on the screen. Mummy Holmes was now sitting on one of the armchairs and John whimpered helplessly. She looked totally exhausted, almost haggard and clearly stressed. He winced and bit down on the gag - that had to be the Holmes Estate. He could recognise the portrait of a family of four hung over the ornate marble fireplace. 

It depicted the Holmes Family when Sherlock was around eighteen. The deceased Mister Holmes looked serious and bored, one trait passed down to each of his sons. The bored expression on his once-flatmate's face was so familiar that John couldn't look at it any more. He jerked against the restraints, yelling as loudly as he could into the gag - all in the efforts to distract himself from the painting of Sherlock. 

"Calm down, John!" his Sherlock delusion yelled, "you're going to hurt yourself." 

John felt hands on his shoulders and froze in place, throwing his eyes open. 

The face of Sherlock dissolved into the ski mask of one of his captor's many workers. He felt a prick in the crook of his exposed elbow and within moments a dazed calmness overtook his consciousness. His Sherlock looked on worriedly from beside the once-again empty shot of Mummy Holmes' living room. 

The gag and restraints were removed and he was handed to his feet, his leg screaming in protest. It was cold irony - the leg that had once supported a psychosomatic limp now contained a shattered knee-cap and a sniper bullet. He couldn't accurately say whether it was the Afghan army or his captor had done the damage - not that it made much of a difference. 

He was blindfolded and made to walk around the room, before being forced to stand perfectly still and made to repeat whatever innane thoughts came to the mind of today's supervisor. John wasn't a (total) idiot - he could recognise training when he was in the midst of it. What he couldn't work out was what he was being trained to do. 

Finally, he was sat back in the chair and re-tied. His gag was not reapplied, and that only made John nervous. 

"Mycroft's there now." Sherlock commented blandly, a moment before John recognised that fact for himself. 

"What's he doing there?" John asked vaguely, frowning at the screen. 

"Obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked calmly. "Moriarty said I'd be there soon. It's most likely that they're staging some sort of intervention." 

"They could be having a family meal." John pointed out hopefully. 

Sherlock scoffed. "Clearly not. Look how agitated Mycroft is, how stressed Mummy looked." Sherlock pointed out, gesturing to the screen. "My bet is on intervention." 

"Do you really think he's coming?" John demanded, trying to ignore his itching skin. 

The voice that answered was that of his kidnapper. "In two minutes." John struggled, desperately to look back, but his head was held in place facing the screen. "Watch." The cloying voice commanded. 

John swallowed, but nodded. The waiting was torture, as Mycroft calmly sipped at a cup of tea. Then, there was suddenly noise from previously muted speakers as Sherlock stormed into his living room. "What gives you the _right,_ Mycroft?" He yelled furiously. 

"As ever, I'm concerned about you. Sit down, Sherlock. Have something to eat." Mycroft commanded sternly. 

"I'm alright." The younger brother dismissed, glaring hatefully at the coffee table laden with food as he sunk into a straight-backed chair. 

"When was the last time you ate, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked sternly. 

"What day is it?" Sherlock asked, frowning. 

"Friday." The elder brother answered shortly. 

"Well, that doesn't help at all." Sherlock commented lightly. "I'm not hungry." 

"Sherlock, darling." Mummy Holmes sighed, coming to sit on the chair beside him and taking one of his hands. "Please?" 

Sherlock yanked away his hand harshly. "I don't want to," he snapped petulantly, "I don't want to do anything." 

"Sherlock, you have to stop this childish nonsense." Mycroft scolded, frowning. 

Mummy Holmes put a hand on her youngest son's arm. "Darling, John wouldn't want-" 

"It doesn't _matter_ what John wants, Mummy!" Sherlock cried furiously, "he isn't here any more and he doesn't care what I do." 

"I do." John breathed, a painful ache beginning in his chest. 

"How touching." The childish voice mocked in his ear. 

"Sherlock, you know that's not true." Mummy Holmes assured her youngest son gently. "John cared about you very much." 

"Then why hasn't he called?" Sherlock demanded, his voice cracking. 

"There isn't reliable phone signal in the part-" Mycroft began. 

"Or written a letter?" Sherlock bit off, glaring daggers at his older brother. "Do they not have _paper_ in Afghanistan, either?" 

"Sherlock, there really is no cause for sarcasm." Mycroft replied, giving him an unimpressed look. 

"John _doesn't_ care about me. It's the only explanation of the facts." Sherlock snapped, clutching at his hair. 

"Wrong," John's figment commented, annoyed, "it's one explanation of _some_ of the facts." 

"I've already told you," Mycroft said, sounding very put-upon, "John's presence in Afghanistan was top-secret information, and any communication could negotiate national security-" 

"What do you mean 'was'?" Sherlock cut in, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

"Is. I'm more than certain I said 'is'." Mycroft replied. Even John could tell he was lying. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled angrily. "don't. You said 'was'. _Where is John?_ " His voice was dangerously low and the doctor squirmed as best as he could in his restraints. 

The eldest Holmes brother hesitated for just a moment, before he announced quietly. "We don't know. Ten weeks ago his escorts were found slaughtered, but Doctor Watson was nowhere to be found. We found his blood and personal affects at the scene, but no body." 

"He could still be alive." Mummy Holmes commented, gripping her youngest son's arm tightly. 

Sherlock's face looked utterly devastated. "No! No, it's not true!" John yelled uselessly at the screen, "Sherlock! I'm alive!" 

"I want them," the consulting detective stated, looking and sounding completely lost, "his personal affects." 

"Of course." Mycroft added, uncharacteristically gentle. "It will take a few days for—" 

"Tomorrow." Sherlock interupted flatly. "I'll be back here tomorrow to collect them. After all the damage you've done, the least you can do is hurry that up." 

"I can manage two days. That is all." Mycroft replied stubbornly. 

"Fine." Sherlock bit off. He stood and began to sweep from the room, only halting when Mummy Holmes called his name desperately. He froze in place and closed his eyes tightly. "Mummy. I can't do his right now. I need to—" he broke off with a sob and pressed gloved fists into his eyes, "I have to go. I have to work. I have to...distract myself. I'll be here on Sunday." 

For John, the concept of Sherlock needing to distract himself from anything but boredom was utterly foreign. He could only stare at his once-flatmate as he left the room. The screen changed and John squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Two days, John," his captor exclaimed brightly, "then the fun begins!" He laughed rather maniacally over the sound of his footsteps. 

John couldn't watch the screen. He refused to acknowledge his own delusion. He spent the rest of the day tied to the chair, trying his very best not to think. Finally, one of the minions released him from his restraints and led him blindfolded through a corridor back to what he now recognised as his bedroom. After another dose of whatever drug they were keeping him on, he was left with only his own mind for company. 

He curled up on the bed and muffled his sobs in the lumpy pillow. When he began to calm, he felt lanky limbs wrap around his torso and hold him against a firm chest. "Shh," the deep baritone voice of his Sherlock soothed, "go to sleep John. I'm here. I'll protect you." 

Hating himself for believing it, John drifted off to sleep. 

**Chapter 2: Overture**

"John," a deep baritone called in his ear, "you need to wake up. We have to get out of here." John rolled over to see Sherlock sitting on the side of the cot. 

"What's going on?" He asked, shortly before the consulting detective touched his face softly. 

"As much as I wish we could have an emotional reunion right now, we just don't have time. As soon as they figure out what I did to Moriarty, they're going to be after us." Sherlock kissed him quickly on the forehead and started helping John out of the sheets. 

The information sunk in slowly, and when John realized what was going on he froze in place. This wasn't his delusion... This was the real Sherlock! He gripped his once-flatmate tightly, and Sherlock turned to give him a concerned expression. "It's really you!" he gasped, head reeling. 

"John, I told you we don't have time for this." Sherlock scolded gently. "When we get back to the flat, we can do this properly but _right now_ we need to get out of here." The taller man took hold of the doctor's arm and dragged him out. 

John was lost and confused - he didn't know where they were or where they were going, but then they were at Baker's Street and everything made sense. He sunk into Sherlock's armchair, trembling. "How did you find me?" He questioned. 

"Do you really think so low of my skills, John?" Sherlock asked, offended. "As soon as I knew you were missing, I got to work. It was child's play, figuring out where you were." 

"But, my captor...?" John queried, lost. 

"Moriarty," the consulting detective supplies helpfully, "you've heard his name before." 

"The cabbie." John remembered, his eyes widening. "Why didn't I think of that?" 

"Because you're an idiot." Sherlock dismissed easily. "No, no - don't be offended. Nearly everyone is." He added fondly, coming to sit on the coffee table in front of the doctor. 

John smiled. "Is it wrong that I've missed that?" 

"Me calling you an idiot? Somewhat." Sherlock answered. He leaned forward and took John's face in his hands. "I've missed you too." 

"The insight you give into your own dreams by speaking the dialogue is _fascinating._ " John threw his eyes open and instantly tensed. His captor (Moriarty, of course!) was in his bedroom. 

And _he_ was in his bedroom. He closed his eyes as the truth dawned on him - it had been a dream. Sherlock had never come to rescue him, and he _wasn't_ safe at home in Baker Street. Worse, Moriarty had probably heard _all_ of it and was no doubt filing it away for later reference. 

"Come on, get up. We've got things to do today." Moriarty declared, his voice rising up an octave and ringing in the doctor's ears. 

John felt the usual blindfold being applied and followed blindly as he was led down the usual path back to the Sherlock-surveilance room. The usual restraints were applied and that was the usual point when the blindfold was removed. 

It remained on. "Now, listen to me carefully, Johnny," Moriarty commanded in his childish voice, "you are here for one reason. But you need to be an obedient little puppy, or I might find another way to get my message across." 

"What are you going to make me do?" John demanded. 

"All in good time, Johnny." Moriarty replied. 

There was a gag stuffed in his mouth before blindfold was ripped off, and he saw Sherlock sitting across from a man in an orange jump-suit. At first glance he looked completely bored, but John knew him better than that. He was agitated, and John clenched his jaw around the stiffling fabric. 

The speakers switched on just as the consulting detective began to speak. 

"Just," he began forcefully, "tell me what happened from the beginning." 

The prisoner looked uncomfortable and nervous. He told some typical story about a bar and a waitress and a jealous girlfriend. When he claimed they'd had 'a bit of a ding-dong', Sherlock heaved a deep breath and sighed it out. Even _John_ could see where this was going. 

The prisoner continued: "She was always getting at me. Saying I weren't a real man—" 

"Wasn't a real man." Sherlock deadpanned. 

"What?" The prisoner demanded, angered. 

"It's not 'weren't', it's 'wasn't'." The consulting detective corrected despairingly. With a very put-upon sigh, he added: "Go on." 

The prisoner seemed nervous and uncomfortable to continue – Sherlock clearly wasn't the type he was expecting. John had to wonder what his once-flatmate was doing taking on a case that was so obvious. "…well…I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands." 

John didn't even need to look to know Sherlock was rolling his eyes. Had he been ungagged, he probably would have yelled at the screen like some riled-up chav – this was so unlike Sherlock to sit through what even John considered boring. 

"Y'know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives." The prisoner stated, sounding almost proud of himself. Sherlock squared the man with an unimpressed look, and he continued: "he learned us how to cut up a beast—" 

"Taught." Sherlock corrected sharply. 

"What?" The prisoner demanded furiously. 

" _Taught_ you how to cut up a beast." Sherlock ammended. 

The prisoner seemed to catch on about his own guilt, and added on to his own agitation, he started to get nervous. "…yeah, well, then-then I done it—" 

" _Did_ it." 

" **Did it**!" The prisoner bellowed, suddenly furious. "Stabbed her! Over and over and over and I looked down and she weren't—" Sherlock scoffed in distaste and looked away, " _wasn't_ moving no more." At another look from Sherlock, he ammended: "any more." There was a few beats as he ruffled his hair anxiously. "God help me, I don't know how it happened but it was an accident, I swear." 

Sherlock had obviously had enough and was finally doing what John thought he would've done half a confession ago: he scraped his chair back and began to stride off. 

"Hey! You gotta help me, Mister Holmes!" The prisoner yelled. Sherlock paused, coming to a stop. "Everyone says you're the best – without you, I'll get hung for this." 

Sherlock turned back to look at him. "No, no, no, Mister Prewit. Not at all." The consulting detective paused to consider, then added: " _Hanged_ , yes." He gave a wry smirk and turned away from the prisoner once and for all. 

The sound shut off as Sherlock strode away, and John whimpered in annoyance as the blindfold was reapplied. 

"Oh, don't act so put-upon, Johnny," Moriarty taunted, "you knew that this was one of a few likely outcomes. I want to watch my Sherlock in peace." John scowled at that and Moriarty chuckled. "Don't mistake yourself, Johnny. Sherlock _is_ mine. Everything I'm doing is for him. I was not impressed when he developed his little attachment to you." The doctor grunted in annoyance when he felt Moriarty's hot breath against his neck. "But that's not a problem I have to worry about any more." He whispered in John's ear. 

John jerked against his restraints, the threat in his captor's voice clear. Moriarty laughed, high-pitched and laced with cruelty. The doctor settled, biting down so hard on the gag his teeth met. Any tears he would have cried were soaked up by the thick material of his blindfold. 

He spent the rest of the day with only Moriarty's unchanging breathing for company. When he was finally handed back to his room, he couldn't sleep. 

"Can't you see I'm trying to distract myself?" His Sherlock delusion commented dryly. "There's no other reason I'd take on such a dull case." 

"Yeah, I'd actually worked that one out for myself, thanks." John snapped tiredly. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. His mind was torturing him with pictures of Sherlock so obviously agitated by the news of his supposed 'death'. 

"Do you miss me?" Sherlock asked eventually. 

"What kind of stupid question is that?" John retorted angrily. "I've given up my determination for mental health just so I can see you again." 

"That's going to be awkward to explain when I get you back home." The delusion remarked dryly. 

"You mean 'if'." The doctor corrected coldly. 

"I will get you home, John. You're mine." Sherlock declared resolutely. 

John scoffed. "Whatever you think." 

"Or, what _you_ think, such as it is," Sherlock added blandly, "since I'm in your head and everything." 

"Can you just…not? Please?" John begged, tugging the threadbare blanket over his head. 

There was a few moment's pause, before John felt familiar arms wrap around him. "I miss you too." 

… 

"Did you get any sleep at all, Johnny-boy?" Moriarty tormented jovially as he entered the surveilance room. John bit into the gag and glared hatefully towards the screen. He'd long since given up trying to see his captor. The mastermind chuckled and came deeper into the room. "I'd act more grateful if I were you, John. I can still change my mind about letting you talk to Sherlock." 

John's eyes widened, and he hardly dared to breathe. The screen flickered and switched to the shot of the Holmes' living room. Mycroft was sitting behind a desk, his face obscured by a foreign-language newspaper. There was a non-descript metal box sitting on the polished surface in front of him. 

John flinched away when an arm entered his peripherals, placing an all-too-familiar phone on the metal bench in front of him. He whimpered slightly in distress. 

"Yes, that is your phone." Moriarty confirmed gleefully. "You'll need it soon enough." 

The speakers flared to life as Sherlock entered the living room with a furious scowl. 

"Did you get any sleep at all, Sherlock?" Mycroft deadpanned, unaware of how parallell his comment really was. 

"Sleep!" Sherlock scoffed. "Sleep is dull." John gritted his teeth, clenching his fists against the arms of the chair. That infuriating man couldn't take care of himself _at all_! "Where are his things?" He demanded. 

Mycroft pushed the box forward slightly, not looking out from behind his newspaper. 

Sherlock scowled, coming forward and opening the box. "This is it?" He demanded, agitated, slamming the lid down. 

"His uniform is still being tested for particulates. I'll have it delivered to your flat when it's ready. This is everything he had with him." Mycroft answered tonelessly from beyond the headlines. 

Sherlock braced himself, then lifted the lid again. He stared at the contents for a few moments, before closing the box once again – this time with pain in his face and closed eyes. "The letters." 

"They're all adressed to you," The elder Holmes confirmed, "none of them are finished, however." 

John sniffed helplessly as Sherlock lifted the lid once more. He must have started twenty letters, but he'd never managed to finish them. Half of the time he'd dismissed his own belief that Sherlock would even _want_ a letter from him, and the other half he'd been unable to put his feelings in words. He bit into the gag before whimpering slightly as it was removed. His anticipation rose as Sherlock pulled out the mobile phone from the box. 

There was an intense moment as Sherlock studied it, before he seethed: "This isn't John's phone." 

Mycroft lowered the newspaper in surprise. "What?" 

"It's obviously not," The consulting detective remarked, "but it's meant to look like it." 

His older brother looked concerned. "That is the phone we found with the rest of John's—" 

"It isn't the same phone!" Sherlock snapped furiously. He turned it over, while Moriarty's arm reappeared to reclaim the real phone. 

"You will read out what I type. I trust I don't need to make any obvious threats." The mastermind commented. 

John nodded, eyes re-focusing on the consulting detective and his brother on the screen. 

"This one's brand new," the younger was saying, "someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone. Which means—" The phone on-screen rang, and he stared at it for a few beats, "that's John's number." 

John found the one hand untied and the phone forced into it as Mycroft declared it to be: "Impossible!" 

"Obviously not!" Sherlock snapped furiously. He hesitated, for just a moment, before answering. The surveilance speakers switched off, and the baritone voice came instead from the phone "…hello?" It queried anxiously. 

John looked at what had been typed and made to appear over-layed on the screen. His eyes widened, but he didn't speak. He couldn't say that! 

New words appeared underneath the ones he was supposed to say: _Read it!_

The doctor swallowed his anger, but still couldn't keep the venom from his voice as he greeted: "Hello…sexy." 

The consulting detective on the screen looked completely dazed. "John?" He managed out eventually, his voice strangled. 

"I'll trace the call!" Mycroft declared valiantly, before he hurried from the room. 

There were more words and John repeated them obediently. "This is a turn up, isn't it?" 

"What the hell?" Sherlock choked out breathlessly. 

"Bet you never saw this coming." John read. 

Sherlock looked stumped. "What are you—" He broke off as realisation dawned on his face, swiftly followed by horror. He didn't speak, only stared at the phone in his hands. 

"What would you like me to make him say next?" John read. Sherlock remained silent, still horrified. "Gottlegeer." A flash of annoyance crossed the detective's face and John swallowed his desperation. "Gottlegeer." The hopelessness sunk in, and his voice broke as he repeated again: "Gottlegeer—" 

"Stop it!" Sherlock commanded violently, a fist clenching on the desk. 

John took a shuddering breath. "So sorry about the dramatics," He read, "but, then again – you love them, don't you?" 

The consulting detective stumbled backwards, knees hitting an arm chair. He sunk into the cushions and choked out: "John, are you alright?" 

"Your little," John paused, seething at the term he'd been given, " _pet_ is fine." 

"Let me talk to him!" Sherlock begged, his eyes desperate. It was so unlike him – he was thrown off-kilter by John's involvement, and John worried about how much this weakness would be used against them later. 

But there was no time to worry, because there was a paragraph to read. He heaved a deep breath. "I'll give you some time when I'm done with you. Just a few moments, mind you – after that, you'll have to earn it. Just a little overture, my sweet – letting you know what happens if you don't play with me." 

"Play with—" Sherlock broke off, his eyes now wild with anger, "if you hurt him, I'll—!" 

"Uh-uh-uh!" Moriarty's voice cut through in the background. 

John gasped, but words appeared quickly. He repeated them, wincing. "Not nice to make threats with your pet's life in my hands." There was a tense silence as Sherlock clenched his jaw and scowled. "Well, I think you've gotten my point by now. I'm not going to bore you with the details – I'm sure you can work it out. I'll be in touch soon." 

There was another silence, and when it was clear the phone wasn't hanging up, the consulting detective asked hesitantly: "Can I…?" 

John waited for permission. _Go ahead and talk, Johnny. But nothing I wouldn't want you to say, now._ He took another deep, shuddering breath and said in a normal voice, "Sherlock." 

Sherlock sunk into a chair, looking pale. "John, tell me you're alright!" He pleaded, his voice edging on hysteria. 

"I'm…" A single word appearing on screen silenced him. _Careful._ He shook his head. "I'm alive." 

Sherlock gave a shuddering sob and clutched a pillow to his chest. "I have to play, don't I?" He asked in a tiny voice. "If I ever want to see you again." 

John looked at the screen for prompting. He didn't want to promise the youngest Holmes they'd meet again if the mastermind had no intention of letting it happen. 

_Oh, you'll see each other again – if you're both good little boys._

John sobbed slightly and closed his eyes tight. "That depends on how well you play his game." 

John took a deep breath and opened his eyes. _That's one way to put it_. 

Sherlock looked scared and uncertain. "Are you—do you—your letters, they—" 

_Bored now. 10. 9._

The doctor gasped and managed out hurriedly. "I miss you." 

Sherlock seemed to catch on right away that they were on a quickly dwindling time limit. "John, wait!" He pleaded. "Can't you give me—" 

"You know I can't!" John choked out desperately. 

_5\. 4._ _Last chance, tell him what you need to. 3._

"I—" It was on the tip of his tongue to say 'I love you', but as he looked around desperately for something, he spotted his Sherlock-delusion in the corner, shaking his head firmly. There would be time for idiotic declarations later. They needed to make sure Sherlock lived through this ordeal. "Eat! You need to eat, Sherlock." 

Sherlock let out a hysterical laugh, before Moriarty plucked the phone from the doctor's weak grasp and hung up. 

The speakers of the surveilance came back on as the consulting detective launched to his feet. "No! No! No! John!" He yelled desperately. He clutched the doppleganger phone in his hands and screamed hysterically: "John!" 

Mycroft re-entered the room, looking grave. "Sherlock, what's going on?" 

Sherlock was visibly calming himself. When he finally spoke, he was angry and distracted. "Did you trace the call?" 

Mycroft had the decency to look ashamed. "No. There was—" 

John's Sherlock delusion scoffed. "He's much too clever for that." He commented. 

At the same time, the real Sherlock growled: "Of course not." He swept about the room, tugging his gloves on. John couldn't accurately remember when he had taken them off. "This is going to get dangerous." He mused angrily. 

"If you need my help—" Mycroft offered hesitantly. 

Sherlock paused in the doorway. "I'll text you." He admitted reluctantly, before sweeping from the room. 

The screen switched off and Moriarty commented: "Very good, Johnny. I think we got the right message across." He laughed and John closed his eyes as the blindfold was reapplied and he was led from the room. 

**Chapter 3: Drugged**

_Sherlock injected himself with an air of practice and clinical precision. He used a sterile syringe to pierce the rubber cap of the little glass bottle and eased a precise 80mg dose into the needle. He rolled up his left sleeve to reveal the standard three nicotine patches that nearly disguised an arm littered with the signs of years' worth of drug use, slipped the needle effortlessly into his vein and released the drug into his system. Having done that, he laid back into the couch and stared at the ceiling with rapidly dialating pupils._

_John sat in his armchair, watching and trying to detatch. There hadn't been a case for weeks and over the past six days Sherlock had done the very same thing. At first John had been horrified, but Sherlock had barely reacted at all when he'd tried to make a point. He'd watched with a doctor's eye time after time, always ready to leap to aid should it prove that his flatmate was in trouble. But Sherlock was obviously practiced – he never under- nor over-dosed himself, always the perfect amount to keep himself in whatever state he was trying to achieve._

_He found himself demanding coldly: "Which is it today – morphine or cocaine?" He hadn't attempted to lecture since the very first occurance, but something about tonight unsettled him._

_Sherlock turned to look at him with a lazy expression. "This is morphine – I'd offer you some, but that's" he laughed, "well."_

_John clenched his jaw tightly, scowling at a mug of tea going cold on the coffee table. "I don't get it, Sherlock. You use nicotine patches, for god's sake!"_

" _I'm not smoking now am I?" Sherlock returned languidly, holding up his fingers for inspection._

_John felt his temper sparking. "Do you know what that stuff does to you?" He cried furiously._

" _Intimately." Sherlock deadpanned. He rolled his head to look at the doctor, giving a slight smile. "However unpleasant the withdrawal side-affects may be, the – what's the colloquialism? – 'buzz' I got from it is perfectly worth it."_

" _Consider the consequences, Sherlock!" John shouted desperately._

" _I do." The consulting detective replied dismissively. He sat up sharply, staring at his flatmate intensely. "Let me put it this way, John: I am bored." John hissed an angry breath, glaring at his friend. "My mind needs occupation. I need cases or puzzles or experiments – without that, my mind rots. When I'm suitably occupied, I don't rely on the use of drugs to deter from the monotony of every day existance." He gazed into the fire, blown-up pupils unseeing. "Do you know what it's like in my head, John? It's always running, John, it's never" he paused, "quiet."_

" _So you take drugs?" John asked coldly._

" _Yes." Sherlock answered quickly. "The morphine...slows things down. What's the use in having unmatched intelligence with nothing to exert it on? The frailty of genius, John..." He closed his eyes and seemed to be disappearing into a trance-state._

_The doctor sighed hopelessly and buried his head in his hands._

_Sherlock's voice was airy and distracted as he commented: "I don't know what's wrong with the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them..."_ _John scoffed in disgust and crossed the room. He jerked on his jacket and paused when the detective enquired: "Where are you going?"_

" _Out!" the doctor yelled furiously, "I need some air!" He stormed out of the flat and away from his idiotic flatmate._

Sargeant Donovan had once remarked about how strange it was that a man with such genius could be so incredibly thick sometimes. _("Why would she think about her daughter's suicide in her last moments? Yep, sociopath – seeing it now." Anderson remarked._

" _Why would she still care about that? That was years ago!" Sherlock exclaimed, agitated. The room seemed to freeze in a mix of disbelief and outrage. Only John seemed unaffected by his flatmate's unintentional callousness and the consulting detective turned to him awkwardly. "Not good?"_

" _A bit not good, yeah." John agreed calmly._ ) John, who had gotten to know Sherlock at that stage had defended the consulting detective quietly. ( _"He just doesn't get it, Sally." John had explained awkwardly. "It's not like he doesn't try, but he has trouble understanding emotions."_) No, John understood that it wasn't stupidity that made up Sherlock's emotional ignorance. But the drugs – that was something John couldn't wrap his head around. Sherlock _knew_ everything he was doing to his system, what dependancy and frequent use could do to damage his genius – the one thing that he relied on to keep himself relatively sane – and yet he still _took_ them. 

He wouldn't eat for nearly two weeks straight (" _Thirteen days is the maximum a human being can survive without food, John." Sherlock remarked factually._ ), yet he would inject various recreational substances into his blood stream sometimes multiple times in one day simply because he was 'bored'. John sort of understood the cocaine (" _True, it's influence is physically a bad one," Sherlock agreed hazily, "but it makes my mind so...transcendently clear that it's secondary action is of little importance."_ ) but he floundered when it came to understanding the morphine. Sherlock hated the vast majority for their lack of ability to think clearly and quickly (" _What's it like in your funny little brains?" Sherock asked curiously, "It must be so boring._ "), so why did he take a drug that slowed him down to what was possibly a normal level? 

( _"Is it nice, not being me? It must be so relaxing..._") 

"I think we gave him too much, sir. He's totally out of it." A gruff voice commented from some distant place. John groaned softly, resisting the focus on the intruder to his thoughts. He would rather stay just where he was beginning to understand Sherlock. 

Perhaps it was too harsh to claim that Sherlock hated the general population. 

"Perfect. He'll be compliant until we get him to the first location." A childish voice cut through his thoughts. 

He frowned and refocussed. No, Sherlock didn't hate people. He just had no compassion... 

_Sherlock was sat, eyes glued to a microscope when John entered the consulting detective's favourite lab room at St Bart's. He greeted him loudly with an annoyed: "I said: could you pass me a pen?"_

" _What?" John looked around the room for the item in question. "When?" He asked curiously._

" _About an hour ago." Sherlock deadpanned, adjusting the zoom slightly._

" _Didn't notice I'd stepped out, then?" He commented. Finding a ballpoint, he tossed it at Sherlock, who caught it flawlessly. He picked up a beaker and frowned at its contents with no real clue how it could relate to the case. Shaking his head, he put it back down. "Can I help?" He asked._

_Sherlock gave no indication he had heard the doctor._

" _I want to help," John pressed, "who knows how long until he kills the next one?"_

" _Hm." Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, "How quaint."_

" _What is?" John asked, growing slightly defensive._

" _You are." The detective added fondly. John frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the sounds of Sherlock's mobile. "Pass me my phone." The detective commanded._

_John looked around in confusion. "Where is it?" He asked._

" _Jacket." The short answer immediately drew the doctor's attention to Sherlock and with a spark of annoyance, he realised the consulting detective was wearing his jacket. He straightened his posture, clenching his jaw in annoyance and crossed the lab. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, none too gently, and searched his pockets. "Careful!" Sherlock scolded. _

_John froze, seething with annoyance but the consulting detective wouldn't even look up from the microscope. He checked the last pocket and pulled out the offending phone, checking the screen. "Text. From your brother." He reported._

" _Delete it." Sherlock commanded instantly._

" _Delete it?" John echoed, thrown. "It's probably about the case." He pointed out. Sherlock merely hummed in acknowledgement and John clenched his fist. "Try to remember there's a woman on the line dying." He snapped._

" _Why should I?" Sherlock asked casually. He looked up from the microscope for the first time since John had entered and squared him with an unimpressed look. "There are hundred of people dying in this hospital, doctor," he remarked coldly, "why don't you go cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"_

_The callous dismissal and jab at John's own empathy ignited what was left of his temper. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives!" He shouted furiously. The self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath blinked at him, unaffected. John reeled. "Just so I know – do you care about that at all?"_

" _Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock deadpanned._

" _Nope." John replied, shaking his head._

" _Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock dismissed, affronted. He turned back to the microscope._

" _And you find that easy, do you?" John challenged._

" _Yes, very!" Sherlock snapped. In the sudden silence, he turned a carefully blank look to his companion. "Is that news to you?" He asked, almost disbelieving._

" _No." John replied, shaking his head in disappointment – in himself or Sherlock he couldn't really tell. "No." He repeated, softer._

_Sherlock was frowning at him, clearly unsettled. "I've disappointed you."_

" _That's good." John retaliated mockingly, "That's a good deduction, yeah."_

_There was a tense silence as Sherlock seemed to consider this, but finally he settled an unhappy gaze on his roommate. "Don't make people into heroes, John." He advised quietly. "Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them." He buried his face back in the microscope, indicating the end of the discussion. A few minutes later, he began: "I need you to go to Scotland Yard and—"_

" _No." John interrupted._

_The consulting detective looked up, shocked. He stared at John for a few moments before scowling. "Oh, so now you're angry at me you don't want to help." John inclined his head in challenge. "Not much cop this 'caring lark'." Sherlock remarked. In one fluid movement he had stood and swept out of the room, leaving an agitated John behind._

John may not have liked the way Sherlock dismissed life as facts or suspects, but he understood it. Sometimes it seemed that he was the _only_ one who understood ( _"Perhaps you can get through to him, John." Mycroft commented airlily._

" _What?" The doctor asked, distracted._

" _I'm afraid my brother can very intransigent."_ ) and could ground the detective in his more relentless moods. 

Somewhere above his absorbed thoughts he was aware of the fact that his limbs were being moved and there was a heavy weight being draped over is torso. He pushed the knowledge aside as unimportant. (" _This is my hard-drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful."_) 

Sherlock didn't think like other people. He followed his own unquestionable, if bizaar, logic ( _"That's a head..." John sighed, leaning against the refridgerator door, "a severed head!" He cried, turning back towards the living room._

" _There's some bread in the oven." Sherlock called. John didn't even want to think about what was in the bread bin, then._

" _No, there's a head in the fridge!" John commented, striding quickly back to the consulting detective._

" _Yes." Sherlock agreed._

" _A bloody head!" He yelled._

" _Well, where else was I supposed to put it?"_ ) and dismissed what other people held in high esteem ( _"Threatened me with a knighthood...again."_ ) yet when it really came down to it "Sir? His pulse is dropping below 40." his reputation really counted. ( _"I thought you'd be..." John searched for the right term, "flattered."_

" _Flattered?" Sherlock repeated, offended. " 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'!"_ ) 

Well, not only his reputation, but what other people thought of him. The people he knew, the people he, dare he say it, cared about. 

" _Sherlock Holmes!" The man greeted as he entered the room. John saw the visible change as his expression became more personable. More – however John hated that there was a distinction – human. _

" _Sebastian." Sherlock returned, clasping hands with the man._

" _How are you, buddy?" 'Sebastian' greeted casually, "What's it been – eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"_

_John clenched his jaw and turned away. He for one was getting sick of being ignored by every single person they came across. There was something alien and fascinating about Sherlock Holmes, making it almost impossible to direct your attention anywhere else. John knew he'd caught himself staring unwaveringly at his flatmate at one point or another. _

_Sherlock seemed to catch his offence and introduced him: "This is my flatmate, John Watson."_

_Sebastian looked at the consulting detective in surprise. "Where did you find someone else willing to share a flat with you?"_

" _He followed me home once." John deadpanned._

_There was an awkward moment before the other man laughed, not quite believing the doctor's words. They shook hands and the three of them exchanged dull niceties as they took a seat around a large glass desk._

_Finally, a glimmer of the normal Sherlock resurfaced: "So, you're doing well – you've been abroad a lot."_

" _Well, some." Sebastian evaded, giving a smug look._

" _Flying all around the world, twice in a month?" Sherlock prompted, giving him a twisted smile._

_The other man laughed awkwardly, beginning to show signs of obvious discomfort. "Right. You're doing that thing." He turned to address John, "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."_

" _It's not a trick." Sherlock cut in, agitated._

" _He could look at you and tell you your whole life story." Sebastian explained, ignoring Sherlock's interruption._

" _Yeah, I know." John replied carefully, "I've seen him do it."_

" _Put the wind up everybody, we used to hate him." Sebastian added callously. John noticed Sherlock turn his face away looking...upset? No, he couldn't possibly... "You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night." The other man continued, unrelenting._

" _I simply observed." Sherlock answered defensively._

_Sebastian leaned back in his chair. "Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you're quite right. But how could you tell?" The consulting detective opened his mouth to answer, but Sebastian ploughed on: "Don't tell me: there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?" He shot the doctor a smug grin and John smiled reluctantly in amusement. "Or was it the mud on my shoes?"_

" _I was just chatting with your secretary outside." Sherlock deadpanned. John frowned – Sherlock hadn't done anything of the sort. So why was he lying? "She told me."_

_Sebastian laughed with an edge of cruelty and Sherlock smirked at him indulgently. If John hadn't known any better, he would've thought the consulting detective was completely unaffected. But John didknow better, or at least he knew Sherlock – and his flatmate was upset. All because his old university roommate had mocked him? _

_It was almost unbelievable._

He felt a too-familiar prick in his arm and slowly, achingly slowly, he started to become aware of the real world around him. (" _People don't have arch enemies, in real life." John commented off-handedly._

" _What do real people have in their 'real lives', then?" Sherlock asked, suspicious._ ) 

"Okay, we're supposed to leave him now. The boss'll contact him when he's sobered up." That voice was familiar, but John's tormented mind couldn't quite place it. A name floated somewhere in the consciousness _just_ above John's reach. He groaned and tried to move, but there was a heavy weight strapped to his chest and it was too much just to try and breathe with it. 

Was that a car door slamming? He frowned and rolled his head, cracking his eyes open and whimpering as the light hit his retinas. Eventually, he made out the hazy interior of a run-down car, and he was in the driver's seat. 

He closed his eyes and dropped his head back into the head-rest. Whatever drugs they had given him were currently warring for prescedent and he wouldn't be able to do anything until his system returned to some semblance of normality. 

"One thing's lucky," commented the voice of his Sherlock delusion, "at least you'll have me around to help you with the withdrawal." 

John turned his head away. 

_John followed a tense Sherlock into the living room of their flat. "You know, it's not really fair. Mycroft's getting all of the glory and I'm getting the consulting fee – what's in it for you?"_

" _Me?" Sherlock echoed blandly, stretching out on the sofa. "For me, there's still the morphine."_

**Chapter 4: Admission**

"John?" Sherlock's deep baritone snapped him from his haze, "John, who is the prime minister?" 

John scoffed, stretching his muscles as much as possible in the driver's seat of a car. "You don't even know the answer to that, Sherlock." 

His delusion gave him a frustrated look from the passenger's. "Isn't that one of the questions you're supposed to ask someone to make sure they're at full mental capacity?" He asked pointedly. 

"I'm drugged, Sherlock – not concussed." John pointed out calmly. He frowned and looked through the windows of the car. "Are we...?" 

"In the carpark of a Sainsbury's, yes." His Sherlock delusion agreed. "Moriarty obviously wants to make a public threat," He continued, "but he should know better. I won't be affected by the news that other people are in danger." 

"Just me." John added, almost reluctant to admit it out loud. He looked down and his heart stopped for just a moment. When it kicked back in, his breathing was sharp and close to hyperventilating. 

"You're strapped to a bomb." The figment pointed out, sounding almost bored. 

"Thanks for your imput." John snapped, panicked. 

He started tugging at the straps, but felt a leather-incased hand on his. "Probably a bad idea. You don't know the mechanics of the trigger – I'd advise you to leave it in place for now." 

John nodded stiffly, closing his eyes and starting to settle his breath. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock could now be seen in the rear-view mirror, and a carefully boxed package sat on the passenger seat. He reached out a hand to open it, revealing a state-of-the-art laptop computer nestled carefully amongst the bubble wrap. He opened it up, swallowing as he recognised the room on the screen. 

"What is he doing in my bedroom?" He asked aloud. 

"Obvious." The figment dismissed with an air of boredoom. "Look at the way I'm seated at your desk – showing clear familiarity with the room. There's a discarded pair of socks in the corner of the room that you didn't leave there; the trousers thrown over the bed, which you have never left un-made yet clearly looks slept-in." John shot a confused look to the rear-view mirror and his Sherlock delusion sighed in annoyance. "I've been staying in your room, John." 

"Why?" John asked, bewildered, settling the laptop on the dashboard. 

"I'm sure this is the part where I make some pure-logic excuse for my reasoning which you go ahead and interpret as some," he grimaced, "emotional explanation." His Sherlock delusion crawled back into the front seat of the car. 

John would have replied, but words had appeared over the bottom of the screen. _Welcome back, Johnny._

He clenched his jaw. "You can hear me, I assume?" He asked aloud. 

_Of course._

"So, what now?" The captive demanded, "You've got to have a reason for moving me here." 

_The game's about to begin, Johnny. In thirty-six minutes Sherlock is going to receive signal of the beginning. When I give the word, you will ring him and repeat exactly what I say._

A flash of red caught his eye and he swallowed as he recognised a sniper laser settling on one of the mechanical chambers of the bomb. 

_It's obvious what will happen if you're not a good boy._

John waited for more instructions, but there were none forth-coming and he settled his eyes back on the surveilance. The real Sherlock was sat at John's desk, staring unmovingly at the arrangement he had made on the polished wood. All twenty of John's letters from Afghanistan were fanned out, the doppleganger-mobile holding the centre down. 

The consulting detective made no move to pick any of the objects up and John stared, entranced, at his near-complete stillness until the realisation hit him: 

"I'm asleep." The delusion commented dryly. 

"You...you sleep with your eyes open?" John asked, confused. 

"Of course," The baritone voice replied, "didn't you know?" 

"I've never seen you sleep before." John pointed out, bewildered. 

"I'm going to need all the energy I can muster." The figment explained calmly. "We all know this game with Moriarty is going to challenge me." 

"For possibly the first time in your life." John remarked dryly. 

"I've been told I had some difficulties learning to talk." The delusion corrected. 

John snorted a laugh. "I just made that up." He conceded, shaking his head. 

"Ask Mycroft when we see him next." His Sherlock delusion suggested. "Well, assuming that I've allowed him to remain conscious once it sinks in that he's the reason that you're in danger." 

"I'm sure Sherlock's already had his revenge for me being sent back to Afghanistan." John dismissed tiredly. "He wouldn't even look at me when I told him I was going." The doctor remembered, his eyes pricking uncomfortably at the memory. 

"You upset me." The delusion replied defensively. "I knew the reason you were going was to get away from the fact that your psychopathic room-mate was in love with you." 

"Sociopath." John corrected instantly, almost without being aware of it. His Sherlock delusion arched an eyebrow, and the doctor flushed in shame. "He's not a psychopath. And that's not the only reason why I left." 

"But it was one of them." The figment added coldly. 

John looked away, not even wanting to see the hurt on his own imagination's face. Eventually, he hung his head in shame. "He wasn't in love with me." He sighed, resigned. "We were dating, but he didn't love me." 

There was silence, and he turned to see familiar grey eyes staring at him with guarded joy. "You've never said that before." An achingly familiar pointed out, raw with emotion. 

"Said what?" John echoed, throat feeling dry. 

"Admitted we were dating." His figment answered carefully. 

"Well, we were I guess," John conceded softly, "even if I didn't know about it at the time." He frowned, turning away to look out the window. When had he accepted the fact that they'd been dating? When had he began to need the knowledge that Sherlock loved him to survive this ordeal? It had to be some bizaar form of Stockholme's. His treacherous mind pointed out exactly how many letters that word was away from the name 'Sherlock Holmes' and he shook his head to clear his thoughts. 

His eyes locked back on the screen and he froze when he realised the consulting detective was now awake, pacing back and forth across the room, shooting glances between the phone in his hands and the fan of letters on the desk. Eventually, Sherlock gave a visible sigh of annoyance and left John's bedroom. The trail of security cameras followed the consulting detective into the bathroom and John closed his eyes to preserve their modesty. 

Some time later (his skewed sense of time could not tell him how long) a familiar baritone commented: "I never waste time on vanity, John – I'm all dressed and ready now." 

John opened his eyes and saw the usual impeccably dressed Sherlock glaring out the window. Two words superimposing over the image set John's heart racing: _stay calm_. 

Sherlock turned away from the window and stepped a few paces away, as soon as he paused the windows shattered inward with an explosion. John cried out and struggled towards the laptop screen. 

"Calm down, John. There's nothing you can do fom here." The familiar baritone scolded curtly. John leant back into the seat and took the moment to reassure himself that his ex-stalker was unharmed. Moriarty wouldn't have been that careless – he didn't want Sherlock injured. There was a familiar beeping and Sherlock flinched. "That came from the glove-box." His delusion supplied helpfully. 

John fumbled to pull his mobile out as the consulting detective scrambled gracelessly to his feet and took out the doppleganger-phone. John frowned in confusion as he opened the message to be greeted with five Greenwhich Pips. A familiar picture came on-screen and he looked up to see Sherlock's outraged scowl as the consulting detective viewed the real estate photo of his old flat. 

The detective tucked the phone away with violence and raced out of 221B. The image on screen flicked to an shot of the flat John had inhabited when Sherlock had first began dating him. It was completely stripped, except for a single pair of trainers in the middle of the raw floorboards. 

_Not long now, Johnny._

**Chapter 5: Shoes**

Sherlock entered carefully, looking around the room with narrowed eyes. He closed the door and stood with his back to it, gaze locked on the trainers. He circled them widely, expression growing harder as he deduced all he could without coming within a metre radius: trainers, in good condition, very nineteen-eighties in design, possibly one of the recent retro styles, large size so probably belonging to a man. He frowned, pausing – no, there was traces of felt-tip pen under the tongue. Not something fully grown men did. So they either belonged to a child or a mentally disabled adult. 

He wouldn't get anything more out of them without a closer examination. He stepped towards them and hesitated. "Remember, he is a bomber." The consulting detective told himself quietly. It was the level-headed advice John would have given that Sherlock had tried to supply himself in the doctor's absence. 

He shook his head once to clear them of irrational worries and approached with careful footsteps. It was a possibility that there was a weighted trigger under the floorboards. He stretched low to the floor, spreading his weight evenly as he looked closely at the trainers. He jumped as a shrill ringing began unexpectedly. He got quickly to his feet and pulled out the phone he'd been sent. 

His hands trembled almost imperceptively as he saw the name 'John Watson' on the screen. He hated that his John was in danger right now, because of someone trying to play a game with him. He'd once assured John that he would never put the doctor in danger he could not control, yet now he could do nothing but follow along with this twisted game. 

He hit the button and greeted hesitantly: "Hello." 

"Sherlock." John's voice returned. The consulting detective's stomach squirmed uncomfortably – it wasn't fair to be using his John like this. "I've sent you a little puzzle just to say how I care." The same deductions from the last phone call ran through his mind: John was reading something, but with the air and inflection of someone who did it frequently. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment kidnapping – John had been trained for this. "The curtain rises." John added, breaking through Sherlock's train of thought. 

"What?" The consulting detective asked, confused. 

"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or Johnny is going to be the one who suffers." There – how the doctor's voice had curled in distaste at the nickname. It meant that his John wasn't completely lost to the cause. It was still John, not his captor's mouthpiece. He couldn't have been captive for more than three months. 

The threat sunk in and he felt his anger sparking (irrational, dangerous, but still uncontrollable). "If you hurt him I will hunt you down and tear you limb from limb!" He growled furiously. 

"You will never find me." John replied coldly. "And I'd advise you not to make threats, my love. Johnny is sitting in a very public place with a bomb strapped to him. If you want to see him again, I suggest you play nicely." 

There was a beep, and then nothing. He looked at the screen to confirm that the call had been disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket. He glared hatefully at the trainers, fist clenching in fury. If it was a puzzle, what exactly was he supposed to be figuring out? 

... 

"I need you, you know." John turned his head to frown at his delusion in the passenger seat. "At the very least to bounce ideas off." 

"I don't think Sherlock has ever phrased it that way in his entire life." John retorted impatiently, turning back to watch the screen. The count-down in the corner of the screen was draining away unrelentingly, and his anxiousness was growing with every minute that passed. 

Sherlock was in his usual lab room at St Bart's, face buried in the microscope. John had stood a few feet away him so many times it was almost like a memory played out on the screen. 

"I think better out loud." His delusion commented. 

"Now _that_ he's actually said to me before." John remarked. "Shortly before telling me I was a replacement for his skull." 

His Sherlock delusion smirked and looked back at the screen. John looked as the audio came out of the speakers. 

"Let's recap what we know," the consulting detective commented aloud, picking up one of the trainers, "the owner loved these – scrubbed them clean, whitened when they got discoloured. Changed the laces four times. There are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from Eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inner sole which means the owner had weak arches. British made, limited edition 1989 – but they look new. Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles, analysis will show where it comes from." 

His monologue was interrupted as Molly, the coroner, entered. "Any luck?" She asked. 

"I'm still waiting." Sherlock dismissed impatiently, glaring back at the microscope. 

The door opened a second time to admit a stranger. "Oh, sorry! I didn't—" 

"Jim!" Molly exclaimed, excited. "Hi. Come in, come in." The man ('Jim') hesitated, looking at Sherlock's stony expression, but came in anyway. Sherlock clenched his jaw and turned back to his microscope. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." 

"Ah!" The man exclaimed. John's skin crawled and a bad feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. "Hi. So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes." John's pulse raced as the realisation sunk in: _he knew that voice!_ "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He asked, circling the room to inhabit the spot John usually did. 

"Jim works in IT upstairs – that's how we met!" Molly supplied eagerly. "Office romance." 

Sherlock smirked and glanced once at the newcomer before looking back at the microscope. "Gay." 

"No! No! No!" John bellowed at the screen, hysterical, "Sherlock! Look at him! Can't you figure it out?" 

Jim 'accidentally' knocked off a pan and Sherlock's face set in annoyance. The newcomer excused himself. As soon as he was out of the room, Molly asked: "What do you mean, 'gay'? We're together!" 

John watched in panic as Sherlock proceeded to list all his observations pointing towards 'Jim's' obvious homosexuality, and he closed his eyes and whimpered. "He didn't notice." He complained hopelessly. 

"I don't know what I'm looking for." His delusion replied defensively. "You recognised Moriarty because of his voice. I've never heard it before." 

John opened his eyes just in time to see Molly running out of the room and Sherlock staring after her with a hurt expression on his face. 

Before he had time to say anything else, the computer beeped and he turned to it with an almost desperate expression. "Mud is from Sussex, with London mud over-laying it, south of the river. So, the kid who owned these trainers travelled from Sussex to London twenty years ago and left them behind. Something bad must have happened – he loved those shoes, so he'd never leave them filthy, wouldn't leave them behind unless he had to." He frowned and picked up the shoe. "So, a child, with big feet gets..." He broke off suddenly. 

"What? What's going on?" John asked, agitated by the interruption. 

"I've got it." His figment supplied. 

"Carl Powers." The consulting detective whispered, stunned. 

"Who?" John asked, confused. 

"Carl Powers, John." His delusion repeated. 

"Why is that name familiar?" John asked, agitated. 

"I've said it before. It's where I began." The figment answered seriously. 

The screen flickered, and John scowled furiously as he recognised himself and Sherlock at a restaurant. 

"So." The John on-screen remarked. "When did you start?" 

He swallowed when he realised this was the conversation his delusion had been referring to. 

" _What do you mean?" Sherlock asked._

" _The whole 'consulting detective' thing." John clarified, "How did you come up with it? In college or...?"_

" _Carl Powers." Sherlock answered cryptically. At John's perplexed expression, he elaborated: "1989. Young kid, champion swimmer came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident – you wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"_

" _But you remember." John stated._

" _Yes." Sherlock agreed._

" _Something fishy about it?" The doctor guessed._

" _Nobody thought so," his flatmate answered, "nobody except me. I was only a kid myself, I read about it in the papers."_

" _1989? You were what, twelve?" John asked, realising just how young Sherlock must have been._

" _Thirteen." Sherlock replied shortly. "The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water. But by the time they got him out it was too late." He stared, maudlin, into his glass. "There was something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head."_

" _What was that?" John pressed gently._

" _His shoes. They weren't there." Sherlock replied, agitated. "I made a fuss, tried to get the police interested but nobody seemed to think it was important." He frowned at the glass, eyes unfocussing as he lost himself in memory. "He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but nobody could find his shoes."_

_There was a tense silence, and then John pressed: "So what happened to him?"_

_Sherlock scowled, furious. "I don't know."_

" _You...don't know?" John repeated, bewildered._

" _It was a cold case. Without the shoes, there were no leads. Even when I gained some respect with Scotland Yard, I still couldn't find anything out. If I could only find those shoes..."_

The old video ended, to be replaced with a shot of Sherlock's bedroom at 221B. "The shoes." John repeated, bewildered. "Moriarty had Carl's shoes?" 

_Of course_ . John frowned at the words on the screen. _It's where I began too. Sherlock and I were destined for each other right from the start._

John swallowed, eyes watching the screen. He hoped Sherlock could figure this out, with six hours to go, he was getting anxious. 

**Chapter 6: Poison**

Three hours. John almost felt like his skin was going to crawl off his flesh. Which, he noted, was a very graphic and incredibly disturbing metaphor. In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn't entirely from the fear as the timer continued to count down. It had been over twelve hours since his last dose of whatever Moriarty was keeping him on – his medical mind knew that this was a withdrawal. 

He whimpered, clutching his hand around that of his delusion as they both watched Sherlock with his face buried (once again) in a microscope. He'd spent the last few hours tearing through newspaper articles and incident reports, pulling apart one of the shoes and taking samples, calling in any facts he could muster until finally settling down to study the samples he'd taken. 

"Please, Sherlock." John pleaded, closing his eyes as they began to lose focus. He shook his head, hissing sharply as his head spun from the movement. 

"You're going to be okay, John." His delusion whispered softly, an arm coming around his shoulders to embrace him. 

"Yeah, well – I bloody well hope so!" He snapped, jerking away from the comfort. "If I don't get _blown up_ because you can't figure out the stupid puzzle then I'm going to die from this _stupid_ withdrawal!" 

"I'm trying, John." Came the hurt reply. The doctor threw his eyes open and glared at the delusion, before snapping his head back around to the screen. 

"Poison!" Sherlock exclaimed, lifting his head. 

"What are you going on about?" Mrs Hudson asked, pausing as she set down a tray of tea-things. 

"Clostridium Botulinum!" Sherlock cried, slamming his hands down on the desk either side of his equipment. Mrs Hudson hurried from the room, terrified, and Sherlock turned back towards the empty space. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet. Carl Powers was murdered!" He stood and began pacing. "He suffered from Eczema, it would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medicine. So, two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns." 

He yanked out the doppelganger-mobile and began texting furiously, muttering to himself: "There were still traces of it left inside his trainers from where he put the cream on his feet – that's why they had to go. And if the killer kept the shoes all these years, it means that he's the one who's got John." 

The phone sitting on the dashboard buzzed and beeped. John picked it up with shaking hands and tried to focus on the message. _FOUND: Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Boculinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker St._

John growled in annoyance and glared at his delusion, "Why do you have to be so bloody dramatic and cryptic?" He snapped coldly. 

He looked back at the screen to see familiar font appear over the image. _Ring him_ , it stated. John punched the few buttons that dialled the fake phone's number. The shrill ringing coming from the laptop speakers was muted as Sherlock jumped and answered the phone. 

"Well done you." He read aloud, trying his best not to let the words lose focus. "Does it make you feel better now? Knowing what happened to little Carl..." 

"It _was_ you, wasn't it?" Sherlock demanded, his words angry. 

"I never liked Carl. He laughed at me." John winced. "So I stopped him laughing." 

"I solved your puzzle, now let John go." Sherlock hissed angrily into the phone. His image was too blurry to see his expression, and John was concentrating everything he could on the words appearing on screen and the hand clutched between his. 

"Don't be silly. Our game's not over yet." He read, trying to slow his breathing as a burning sensation began to crawl up his arms. "I'm not done with Little Johnny yet." 

"Why bring him into this?" Sherlock demanded, his voice low. " **Why**?" He bellowed suddenly. 

John jumped, the phone tumbling out of his trembling hand. _Tut tut. Clumsy boy._ He scrambled for it and picked it back up. "It was the easiest way to keep your attention." John read, hissing as a trail of fire shot up his spine. 

"John! Are you alright?" Sherlock demanded, his voice cracking with panic. 

"I suppose I should let you talk to him," the doctor read, "since you figured out the case. Although not so long ago simply having the case solved would have been reward enough for you." 

"He's in pain." Sherlock observed. When he spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous: "I will end you for this." 

"For hurting your pet? We'll see." John read. "You can talk freely." He frowned, wondering whether he was supposed to read that part aloud or not. 

"John, what's the matter?" Sherlock demanded. 

He waited for words, until the realisation that he was free to talk sank in. "Burns." He hissed through clenched teeth, twisting in his seat and gripping the delusion's hand tighter. 

"What does? John, is he torturing you?" Sherlock fired off rapidly. 

"Not here." The hostage ground out, pushing his burning back into the hard car seat. "Need—" He broke off with a grunt of pain. "Drug!" He gasped out fiercely, "some kind of—" 

There was a click in his ear and Sherlock's voice exploded from the laptop speakers. "No! John!" There was a crashing and John managed to focus his eyes enough to see Sherlock fuming over the mess that had previously been sitting on the desktop. Two phones beeped and John squinted at the one in his hand as he opened the message. Four beeps and an image of a car appeared. 

He frowned. "Hang on, is that _this_ car?" 

The door yanked open and he felt rough hands tugging him out of the interior. He lost his grip on his Sherlock delusion's hand and he whimpered in distress, clenching the empty fist desperately. The car drove off and he was manhandled into the back of a limousine. 

'Jim from IT' was seated in the back, now dressed in an impeccable dark suit. "I'm very disappointed in you, Johnny." The high, childish voice remarked. "You very nearly ruined the game for us. You'll have to be punished for that." 

John knew he ought to be worried about that, but as the familiar sharp pain of a needle sinking into his arm brought relief from the shaking and burning, he found he couldn't care. 

**Chapter 7: Janus**

The worst part, John decided, was being completely clueless as to what Sherlock was doing. His apparent punishment from Moriarty was to be cut off from surveillance. Not that it would have been easy to do considering his new location. The busy London street was bustling and anytime anyone jostled past him, he felt his hysteria and panic rising. It was too busy, and he was terrified someone would move one of the cables wrong and set off the bomb he was still strapped to. (It was now hidden beneath a parka, but _he_ knew it was there and that was enough). 

He checked the pager nervously, anxious for the go-ahead to call Sherlock. He didn't even know if Sherlock was _trying_ to solve the case, or even if he had been and deduced everything. Maybe the game was going on elsewhere, and he was just supposed to stand here until Moriarty needed another bargaining chip. His Sherlock delusion was nowhere to be seen, and he couldn't calm himself down. So many people rushing past and not one of them familiar. 

The pager beeped loudly and he stared down at it, eager. He dialled the doppelganger-phone on command and waiting, bating his breath until Sherlock's deep baritone came from the phone. "Hello?" 

"It's okay that you've gone to the police." John read obediently. His eyes widened – Sherlock had gone to the police? What if it had been against Moriarty's rules! He could've been dead by now. The pager beeped at him, and he drew his eyes back to it. "But don't rely on them. This is about you and me." 

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, irritated. A bus shot past and a taxi blared its horn. "What's that noise?" He asked, suspicious. 

"The sounds of life, Sherlock." John replied quietly, almost inaudible above the traffic just a few feet away from him. "But don't worry. I can soon fix that." He stared hatefully at the red laser that settled on the bomb. "You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time, you have eight." The phone clicked, signalling the end of their conversation, and John buried it in his pocket. "Please Sherlock, please." He whispered, unsure of exactly what he was begging for. 

... 

"The car was hired yesterday by an Ian Munkford." Lestrade was explaining. Sherlock could barely concentrate, hurrying towards the run-down car as fast as he could manage. "Banker of some kind. Paid cash, told his wife he was going away on a business trip and he never arrived." 

Sherlock ducked his head inside the passenger door without preamble. There was blood coating the driver's seat and the centre console. The spray pattern (or rather lack-there-of) told him a lot. The blood hadn't come from a wound, or even many – it looked as if it had been thrown through the driver's side door. He sniffed, ascertaining that yes, it was human blood. It smelled slightly off though, definitely not like freshly spilt blood. 

Obviously, someone was going to a lot of trouble to make it look like a violent situation. He opened the glove box – there was _always_ something in the glove-box. There! A business card – 'Janus Cars'. Janus – the Roman god often used to symbolise transition between past and future, usually depicted as having two faces. Obviously the car dealer who rented Mister Munkford the vehicle. 

He straightened. "No body." He commented. 

"Not yet." Sergeant Sally Donovan bit off coldly. 

He looked around the crime scene, assessing all the personnel present. Mostly members of the police force, but – there! A distressed-looking woman, dressed in professional clothing. "Get a sample sent to the lab." He commanded softly, walking away from Lestrade and the Sergeant. 

He approached the woman. "Mrs Munkford?" He greeted. 

She turned to look at him, and Sherlock could detect the fallacy in her display of grief. Inwardly, he smirked, while outwardly he schooled his expression carefully. "Yes?" She sighed almost in annoyance, "I'm sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen." 

Sherlock fell into the necessary role – managing to ascertain the required information by leading her in directions that wouldn't rouse suspicion in someone truly innocent of blame. Her anger was very telling. 

He smirked as he strode away, wiping the faked tears from his cheeks. 

She'd been too quick to refer to her husband in past tense – that gave away the fact she was going to publically accept that her husband was dead. It was premeditated, obviously – but she wasn't the killer. Oh no, she was not clever enough for that. 

He took the business card from his pocket, checking the address as he headed towards the main road. His next stop was Janus Cars, and he had no doubts that the company was involved in the Munkford's charade. 

... 

John was almost relieved when he was instructed to call Sherlock again. It was bound to mean that the detective had solved the case! He dialled the number eagerly and waited for the familiar voice of his once-flatmate to filter out of the phone. "Hello." 

John scowled as he read. "The clue's in the name: 'Janus Cars'." If he was being used to send a clue, then Sherlock was nowhere near solving the case! 

"Why would you be giving me a clue?" The consulting detective demanded. 

"Why does anyone do anything?" John read. He almost rolled his eyes at the next words on the screen. "Because I'm bored." Moriarty sounded just like the consulting detective in one of his darker moods. "We were made for each other, Sherlock." John tried to deny the truth of that statement, but it fit so well. The mastermind and the detective: doomed to play a game of cat and mouse for the rest of their lives. 

"Then talk to me in your own voice." Sherlock challenged. 

John winced. He knew Moriarty would see that as a manoeuvre to get John out of harm's way, but the doctor knew that the mastermind was just filing these moments away to be used against them later. Sherlock was only digging them deeper into a hole John wasn't sure they would manage to get out of at all, let alone unscathed. 

"Patience, my love." John read, cringing at the words that were forced from his mouth. The phone clicked and he put it back in his pocket. 

/ 

Sherlock nearly jumped when his phone rang again, but he reached for it, desperate to know that John was still okay. Hearing his voice so panicked and pained a few calls ago had been terrifying. Sherlock hated knowing his John was in danger – hated even more that it was out of his control. 

"Hello." He greeted, making sure his voice was casual. 

"The clue is in the name." John read aloud. "Janus Cars." 

"Why would you be giving me a clue?" Sherlock asked, suspicious. There were only a number of answers to that one, and none of them boded well. The most likely was that the kidnapper was displeased with the rate at which he was solving the case. There was also the possibility that they were worried about time running out – but he dismissed that idea for its lack of credibility. Why would the kidnapper worry about time running out? It was obvious that they hadn't developed an emotional attachment to John, so the threat of the doctor's death wouldn't bother them. (Sherlock tried to ignore the sinking feeling in _his_ gut at the thought of his John dying in because of this blasted game). There was the chance that the kidnapper thought he wouldn't continue the game without John as leverage, but Sherlock didn't underestimate his opponent enough to believe they wouldn't find something else as incentive. 

"Why does anyone do anything?" His John answered. "Because I'm bored." 

Sherlock froze in place. 

" _Why would someone do this?" Lestrade asked, frowning at the picture of the car on the phone._

" _I can't be the only one who gets bored." Sherlock answered_. 

John's next words broke him from his train of thought. "We were made for each other, Sherlock." 

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes. He could use that – the estranged possessiveness of his kidnapper. He had his own leverage. "Then talk to me with your own voice." He challenged. 

"Patience, my love." The phone beeped and Sherlock lowered the phone, trying not to let the defeat show on his face. 

So much for leverage. He took a moment to deal with the fact that there was a definite emotional impact from hearing John say things he would've been otherwise pleased to hear him say. He sighed heavily, forcing the unwanted emotional complications away as he returned to his work. 

... 

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked, watching Lestrade carefully. There was only three hours to go, he didn't need to deal with the Detective Inspector's idiotic need for _every little bit_ information. 

"How much?" Lestrade echoed, "About a pint – why?" 

"Not about." Sherlock answered shortly. " _Exactly_ a pint. That was their first mistake." He looked down at the seat. "Blood's definitely Ian Munkford's, but it's been frozen." 

"Frozen?" The DI repeated. 

"There are clear signs." The consulting detective dismissed impatiently. "I think Ian Munkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they used to throw on the seat." 

"Who did?" Lestrade pressed, eager. 

"Janus Cars." Sherlock answered. " 'The clue's in the name'." The DI looked bewildered, but Sherlock pressed on: "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Munkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, probably. He was a banker. Couldn't see a way out, but if he were to vanish – if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat..." 

"So where is he?" Lestrade pressed. 

Sherlock sighed. Always the wrong questions. "Columbia." 

"Columbia?" Lestrade echoed, disbelieving. Sherlock sighed in irritation and listed off all the observations about Mister Ewart that pointed towards that particular place and strode off, tugging out the mobile. 

_Congratulations to Ian Munkford on his relocation to Columbia._ He hit send and hurried back up into Scotland Yard. The next round would begin again soon, and he was desperate to finish the game as soon as possible. He had to get his John back. He wouldn't rest until he knew the doctor was alright. 

**Chapter 8: Promise**

The chair was comfortable, in a cringe-worthy floral pattern, but very soft. If John had any strength left to, he would be terrified. Why would Moriarty be trying to make him comfortable? He was tempted to sit on the floor, but his Sherlock delusion had cut him down with a look and a sharp: "don't be an idiot." 

That had been hours ago and now he was trying his hardest to control the muscle spasms he was having. He was panting and his mouth felt _so dry_ , but every glass of water that's been produced did nothing to help. His skin was so _itchy_ , damn it, but Moriarty had threatened to bind his hands after he'd nearly torn his skin open. 

He felt a soft, leather-covered hand on his arm and jerked away, scrambling to the furthest end of the couch. "Leave me alone!" He bellowed. 

The figment flinched and looked hurt. "John, please..." 

"Stop it!" He snapped, rubbing at his irritated skin with his palm. "Water," he gasped, "please, I need water." 

A few moments later a ski-masked minion entered and left a plastic cup of water on the coffee table. He nearly dove on it, draining the glass and growling in frustration when it did nothing to moisten his dry mouth. He crawled back onto the couch and covered his head with his hands. Fire shot up his left leg and it spasmed, kicking out at the other arm rest. 

He sobbed and the familiar weight of a hand landed on his shoulder. "John." 

"Sherlock." He sobbed, leaning into the touch as best as he could. "Please, make it stop?" He begged, gripping the hand between his own trembling ones. 

"Shh, it'll be okay, John." His Sherlock delusion whispered softly, and John felt the now-familiar weight of the taller man's head resting on his shoulder. "Nobody knows withdrawal better than me, and when I get you home I promise I'll take care of you." 

"You're not even bloody real!" John roared, trying to pull away from him. 

His figment pulled him back into position. "You know I will, John." 

He felt a sharp sting in his arm and looked up with grateful eyes to the minion who was injecting him with the relief. He trembled at his own weakness and closed his eyes until the haze took over and settled everything down. 

... 

Sherlock frowned in frustration at the phone in his hands. "That could be anyone!" He exclaimed in fury. Before he could find someone to question, the phone rang shrilly in his hands. John's last uttered words echoed in his head and steeled his resolve. _Patience, my love_. 

"Hello." He greeted steadily. 

"Did you miss me?" John's voice asked, his voice low and cold with reluctance to read the words. 

"Hardly." Sherlock bit back with furious conviction. He didn't miss the kidnapper, but he missed his John fiercely. But he had to play, had to win so he could get him back. 

"What a shame. He dreams—" John cut himself off with a choking noise. Whatever he was supposed to be reading was obviously too close to home. There was a sharp intake of breath and his next words were ground out through clenched teeth. "He dreams of you saving him. Every night." 

Sherlock gave a wordless, strangled cry. "John. I _will_ save you!" He growled out, his resolve setting. 

"You will try." John's voice was pained, and laced with resignation. 

Sherlock growled. "Don't you even _think_ for a second that I'm going to let you go, John. I will fight to get you if it kills me." John laughed hysterically, his voice hitching with half-sobs. "I'm not giving up." Sherlock promised, his voice rough with the emotions constricting his throat. 

"I said you would see him again, Sherlock. I didn't say I would let him live." John read, his voice flat. 

"I won't let you kill him." Sherlock replied, glaring at a non-specific part of the wall. 

"It's not your choice, my dear." John read, still emotionless. "It's mine." 

"Why are you doing this?" The consulting detective demanded, anger sparking. 

"I like to watch you dance." John whispered dangerously. Sherlock's heart raced and his fist clenched on the phone. "This one's a tricky one." 

"Tricky?" Sherlock echoed, challenging. 

"You don't even know who she is, do you?" John deadpanned. 

Sherlock balked. "I—" 

"Twelve hours." John answered shortly, before the phone beeped as the call was disconnected. 

Sherlock lowered the phone and clenched his fists. He had to figure this out. He had to prove to John that he could—no, _would_ save him. 

He hurried through Scotland Yard, checking all the most likely places until he found Lestrade. He nearly shoved the phone in the Detective Inspector's face in his desperation. "Do you know who this is?" He demanded hurriedly. 

"Yeah. Why?" Lestrade asked, bewildered. 

"It's the next test." Sherlock snapped tersely. 

"Are we to assume there's some poor bastard somewhere primed to explode?" The DI asked, agitated. 

Sherlock clenched his fist. "Shut up!" He snapped, trying to reign in his emotions. "Who is it?" He demanded 

"Connie Prince, she's a TV personality." Lestrade answered. "Had one of those make-over shows. Very popular, she was going places." 

"Was?" Sherlock repeated. 

"She died two days ago. She's in the morgue at St Bart's if you..." 

Sherlock had already hurried away, not bothering to hear the end of Lestrade's sentence. 

He didn't have to ply Molly with the usual sweet talk. She took one look at his determined expression and rolled her eyes, foisting him off on another coroner. The kidnapped clearly wasn't as smart as he thought he was. It wasn't an instantaneous connection, but he worked it out insipidly quickly. The puncture marks in on her forehead made the cause obvious – botulinum was, after all, the toxin used in botox injections. 

So, he had cause – now he just needed suspects and motivation. He texted Mycroft's assistant with a demand for information and went on the internet – if she was a celebrity as Lestrade had claimed, then a fan database was bound to know the ins-and-outs of her life she'd rather have kept secret. 

It was some time in when the DI entered the room Sherlock had commandeered. "We've got a problem." Lestrade announced angrily. 

"What _now_?" The consulting detective demanded, looking up from the computer he was avidly absorbed in. He was currently on a forum which discussed her brother's involvement in the programme and Connie's life. 

"We found someone else's DNA in the car." The DI informed him stonily. "Hair." He continued at Sherlock's impatient expression. 

"Whose?" The consulting detective pressed, suspicion growing cold in his stomach. 

"We ran them through the database, and they matched up with one Doctor John Watson." Lestrade informed him tightly. "You want to tell me what's _really_ going on, Sherlock?" 

... 

Sherlock was not one for regrets. He refused to look back on his own past options and consider how things could have gone differently had he acted differently. He knew that there was no use to wanting things to be anything other than what they were – you could only learn from past mistakes. 

Yet, as he watched Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard run around in a panic as they answered numerous phone calls all trying to report the same incident, he wished he had acted differently. He was well aware of the concerned officer trying to talk to him, but he couldn't rouse the effort to acknowledge her. 

He should've called the kidnapper out the moment he figured out that botulinum was the cause, or when he deduced that the housekeeper was the murderer. Instead, he'd told himself to wait for the information packet from Home Security to arrive, following any leads he could to track down John's kidnapper while the time ticked away. 

He'd strolled into Lestrade's unit with one hour left to go, thick folder hoisted in the air and announcing: "Raoul de Santos is your killer!" Lestrade looked up, perplexed. "Kenny Prince's house-boy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince, it was botilinum toxin." 

Lestrade led him towards the DI's office. "So how'd he do it." 

"Botox injection." Sherlock replied boredly. "Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections." He threw the file on the desk and pulled out the fake phone. "My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete record of Raoul's internet purchases – he's been bulk-ordering botox for months." He typed out the message quickly and glared at Lestrade before he hit send. "He bided his time and upped the strength to a fatal dose." 

_Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox._

The phone rang almost instantly. "Hello." He greeted evenly. 

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" John's voice demanded flatly. "This game I've set up for you. You're finally being challenged." 

"I'd hardly call that last one a challenge." Sherlock retorted, his temper sparking. "Botulinum? We've been here before – Carl Powers, remember?" 

"How could I— _hang on_!" That last part was pure John and Sherlock began to get worried. No doubt John was _not_ supposed to deviate from the words supplied, and here he was doing just that. "How long have you known?" The doctor demanded furiously, his voice rising. 

"Well, they repeated themselves." Sherlock dismissed. 

"I've been sitting here," John said through clenched teeth, his voice steadily rising as he continued talking, "for _eleven hours_ strapped to a bloody _bomb_ while you sat around did _nothing_!" 

"I knew I could save you! I also knew that I'd been given _twelve_ hours! I wasn't going to let the time run out!" 

"Seriously?" John demanded, his voice cold. After a moment, his breathing picked up to a hysterical rate and he whimpered in fear. When he finally spoke, it was at a terrified whisper: "Oh, Sherlock...what have you done?" 

There was the loud pop of a sniper and the phone beeped. Sherlock couldn't move, could only stare at nothing while the police radios crackled to life and the phones started ringing off the hook. 

The phone that so closely resembled that of his old flatmate slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. He could hardly hear the panicked reports of an explosion as his blood rushed in his ears. 

For the first time in Sherlock's life, he wished he had acted differently. Closing his eyes, he let out a gut-wrenching sob and slumped forward in his seat. "John..." 

**Chapter 9: Letters**

**Eternal thanks to applepie2334, Valkyrie Vampire and Glittery-Excuse-for-a Fae, who supplied ten out of twenty letters in this chapter.**

Sherlock couldn't accurately recall how he'd gotten back to 221B Baker Street. But he woke up in John's bed as usual and managed to stumble his way over to the desk before he remembered what had happened. 

Looking at the letters fanned out on the desk, he found he couldn't breathe properly. As boring as breathing became, he knew it was necessary for life. But as he stared at the letters penned by possibly the only man he had loved, he wondered whether he wanted to continue being alive. 

Feeling cold and inexplicably numb, he reached out for the pile with hands that just wouldn't stop shaking. He checked the colours of the envelopes, arranging them in chronological order. Then, he stared at them. 

He couldn't decide whether to read them or not. He hadn't before now because he knew he had to concentrate on the 'game' John's kidnapper had set up for him. But there was to be no more game. There was nothing left to win. 

His hands were picking up the first envelope without his conscious permission, and he stared at the blank envelope for some time. Finally, he turned it over and opened the unsealed flap. He pulled out the letter and just stared at the shape of John's handwriting for too long, the words could be complete gibberish for all he knew in the first few moments. Finally, he turned his attention to the words. 

The first few lines were scribbled out, but – eventually – it began. 

_Dear Sherlock_

_To Sherlock_

_Mr S Holmes_

_Sherlock._

_This is so stupid - I haven't seen you in so long and I still can't think of what to say. I miss you seems like a pretty good start. But then things just get complicated because I_

_I can't say where I am - though you've probably figured it out from a speck of dust in the envelope or something. I'm sorry that I left with things still like that between us. I didn't want that. I wanted_

_I need_

_I wish I could talk to you._

Sherlock tried to ignore the pricking sensation in the back of his eyes and the words blurring in and out of focus. Trembling hands reached for the next envelope and hesitated in opening it. Shaking his head, he pulled the paper out and frowned at the length. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_._

_Sod it._

He couldn't help but smile. There was a tiny spot of ink on the paper where he had left the pen resting for quite some time trying to decide what to write. He had obviously given up. 

Shaking his head and trying to ignore the growing ache in his chest, he reached for the next letter. 

_Sherlock._

_How are you? Has Mrs Hudson managed to make you overdose on tea yet? How's the skull? How's work? Are you eating? Do you_

_I sound like an idiot. Even more so than usual._

_I always feel so stupid these days. Of course, you'd say that I am but, hey, most people are, right?_

_I'm so stupid._

Sherlock clenched his free fist, tucking it under his arm to keep it from shaking too violently. It was so John – worrying about him eating. But he felt a sharp stab of hurt at the latter part of the letter. He should've never called John an idiot. The man wasn't as intelligent as Sherlock, that was a given, but he was _not_ an idiot. 

He shoved the letter away from him and scrambled for the next one. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I was never built for the civilian life. Being a soldier again...it makes me feel almost complete._

_Almost, because it always feels like something is missing. I keep thinking of you here, how you'd deduce every secret of my escorts and leave them hating you. But, the thought is ridiculous. You are not a solider._

_You are a hundred things, but a soldier you are not._

The beginning sounded almost happy, but the tone of the letter changed. He truly had missed Sherlock, had wished the consulting detective was there. He sniffed, trying to clear his nasal passage of inconvenient snot as he reached for the next one. It was hard enough to breathe as it was. 

_Sherlock,_

_I hope that you are well. Of course you're probably not..._

_You probably haven't eaten in god-knows when and_ (the next word was scribbled out) 

_This was meant to be about telling you that I'm doing well and here I am moaning at you! Still I'd be moaning at you regardless...  
Oh this is stupid! _

Sherlock could nearly feel his ex-flatmate's frustration through the letter. Which was ridiculous because one _could_ deduce emotions from a letter, but one could not _feel_ them. Scowling at his own ridiculousness, he went for the next letter. 

_Sherlock,_

_When I was six seven six (_ each of those numbers was crossed out _) a kid, my dad died. He'd been away to war and was diagnosed with severe PTS (_ that was crossed out too _) he came back so much worse than I did. Mum left him and he drank himself into a stupor. Harry never let it go and_

_God, I'm an idiot. Why would you care about my childhood?_

Sherlock frowned. He wondered what had been going through John's head to prompt the writing of that letter. He shook his head – he _did_ care about John's past, if only because it was now the only thing left of John. His breath hitched at that thought and he took some time to calm himself down before he reached for the next envelope. The letter began without preamble: 

_Last night I had a dream. It hurt so_ (crossed out as well) _It felt so real. And it was so normal._

_I dreamed of Baker Street. Our flat – well, yours. I kind-of just moved in. Well, you moved me in. I didn't really have a choice in the matter, did I?_

_You were sitting in my arm chair, not that you've ever done that, and reading a newspaper. It was so calm, but you weren't bored. You looked up at me and_

_You said "I'm glad you never went back to Afghanistan, John. I don't know what I would've done if you had left me."_

_And for the first time, I wish I hadn't left. Why didn't you ask me to stay? Why didn't_

Why hadn't he asked John to stay? His eyes blurred out as he considered his John's desperate question. 

Because he didn't think it would have helped. John was running away from a situation he didn't want to face (Sherlock's romantic attachment), and pleas from the same person he was trying to escape wouldn't have helped. 

Shaking his head and refocussing, he found a new letter in his hands. 

_Dear Sherlock._

_Its hot here, well that's a granted what with it being Afghanistan._

_I miss... I miss the weather in England, I miss the rain and the wind and the grey skies._

_I also really miss_ (the word 'you' was crossed out twice) _Mrs Hudson, yes it seems strange to say that I know. I just want you to know that I am thinking of..._ (this was crossed out as well) _I really don't miss your violin playing at all hours! Or your silences that go on for days! Or the firing matches you have with the wall because you're "bored"!_

_Oh sod it! I do miss it. I bloody miss all of it!_

John's letters were getting darker and more desperate as they continued and Sherlock shifted, worried for the state his John had been in at the time. Afghanistan had never been a good idea and the doctor should _never_ have gone back. He reached for the next letter, trying to repress his hysterical emotions. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Are you eating? I woke up with a horrible feeling today that just won't go away. You never did want to eat on your own. I still remember that night date _ (those two words were crossed out as John struggled to find the right word before settling on) **_dinner_** _we had at Angelo's after that banker case. You didn't want to eat and_

_God, you looked so ridiculous with fettuccini hanging off your face_

_I'd never laughed so hard in my life_

_You were so angry at yourself for letting Shan get away. You can't win every game, Sherlock. Some wars are meant to go on forever._

His hands shook as he put the letter back on the desk, taking a moment to bury his face in his hands and starting at the dampness he found there. It was perfectly rational to be crying, but he hadn't been aware of it before now. The blurring words suddenly made sense. 

Sherlock had to wonder – was John thinking about his war in the last line? Because the second-to-last statement set his heart racing and settling a lump in his throat. No, Sherlock couldn't win every game... but why did the one he have to lose be the one with the worst punishment of all? 

John was _dead_! He sobbed helplessly: Moriarty had blown him up because Sherlock hadn't been playing fairly. Through the haze of yesterday's catatonia he vaguely remember Lestrade reporting that two bodies were unidentifiable because of their proximity to the explosion – one of them a man of five-eight in his late thirties with a wounded left scapulae and one shattered kneecap. 

All the data pointed to an answer Sherlock was desperate not to accept, but his own devotion to logic couldn't let him escape the truth. His John was dead and it was all his fault. 

And now the only thing he could do was read the letters John had never intended him to read. 

He wiped at his face and picked up the next letter. The handwriting was unsteady, as if John's hand had been shaking, possibly fear or more likely nervousness judging by the spacing between letters. 

_Sherlock,_

_I had a dream last night, and not my usual nightmares. Maybe it's the loneliness or the complete lack of human contact since I got here. But I guess I'm not as opposed to the idea of us together as I once was._

_Not that we were ever like that, though. Was it torture for you? Wanting to touch me like a lover should but never doing so?_

Oh, how hard it had been. To want to just **hold** the doctor and kiss him... but he knew it was up to John to progress them to that stage. It had never happened and now it never would. 

_Who am I kidding? Who would want to be like that with someone like me?_

_Remind me to toss all these letters in the fire before I get back to Baker Street. If you ever read any of these I'd be bloody mortified._

The consulting detective resisted the urge to cry out and the paper crumpled between his fists. He flattened it carefully and tried to shove it out of his mind. It was no use wishing for something that hadn't happened. Especially not now. 

He reached for the next letter and tried to steady his shaking hands so he could read the words. 

_Sherlock,_

_I don't know how much more of this I can take. Every time I hear an explosion or start bloody limping or even just see someone with grey eyes_

_You're everywhere and_ (this was crossed out) 

_Two months. It seems a lot longer. But, then again, sometimes it feels like no time has passed at all. I miss Baker Street, I miss Mrs Hudson and God I even miss that bloody head in the fridge._

_I think about you._

_I miss you most of all._

_I hope I'll be back soon._

Sherlock sobbed and slid the letter back into its envelope. No. John was never coming home now. He picked up the next one and tried to breathe as deeply as he could before his head began to spin again. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Everything I encounter reminds me of you. With your deductions skills and hurried manners, I'm sure you'd cut me off right there and launch into one of your monologues. I can hear it my head now: "Naturally, you're a medic. Thus you are being exposed to all manner of festering wounds and downright confused with Private Hendern. The wounds remind you of the morgue, which reminds you of me. And Private Hundern reminds you of Anderson, who normally wouldn't bother you (honestly, you should just ignore his ramblings), but Hundern acts like him, which leads you, once more, to me." All true. But then I'd use my idiocy to somehow shock you. Something I take much pride in doing. Because the mutilated bodies, the secret codes, and the adrenaline aren't the only things that force you in my mind._

_There's the rocks. The bloody rocks, Sherlock! And I don't know why or how. I came back here to forget you, Sherlock. Because I knew there'd be rocks. Bloody rocks and sand. And yet, every time I open my eyes and see_

_I see you. And I think of you. There was a_

Sherlock sniffled slightly, struck with John's confession. He _had_ gone to Afghanistan to escape Sherlock. Even though Sherlock knew this, it still hurt (however irrationally) to have it confirmed. He took the rest of the letters with him as he curled up on the bed. 

The next one began without preamble: 

_I really wish I could yell at you. Tell you to get out of my head. But I don't want you to leave. I'm beginning to think it was all a dream, that I never left this stupid, dry and overly sandy desert in the first place._

_That I just dreamed you out of thin air._

_Then the you in my head tells me I'm an idiot, that it's a desert - it's supposed to be sandy and that there is no way my imagination is that good._

_I miss you so much, Sherlock._

The very idea of John creating Sherlock was just logical enough to hurt. Would John have created a delusion that loved him, to deal with the stress of war? It seemed like something his John could do when pushed to the brink. 

He screwed his eyes shut and opened the next letter. Seven left to go and he didn't know if he could get through them intact. The next one began straight away as well, as if John didn't feel the need to address the recipient – of course, he'd never planned to send these letters. 

_Am I writing letters to a ghost? Did I ever leave this damn country? I wish that there was some proof that you were real. Something tangible to tell me you existed, that I actually met you and for one time in my life I was actually happy._

_Stupid. I'm so stupid._

Happy. John had been happy with him. Fighting down the sobs, he reached for the next one and waited until the tears passed and his vision wasn't so blurry any more. 

_My nightmares are back, and they're worse because now it's not just me who's getting shot at. All I can see is you and it hurts because you're in pain and I can't help you._

_I just can't._

_I can't get you out of my head and I don't think I want to anymore because you might be the only thing keeping me sane out here._

_Keeping me grounded._

The distress in that letter was worrying. That John was being tortured with his friendship with Sherlock by his own subconscious... Sherlock hated that he had caused his John _so much pain_... 

Steadying his breath, he put the letter away and opened the next one. 

_Some blogger I am - I can't even finish a single letter. There's no point anyway - I doubt I'd be able to send it and your brother would probably have someone confiscate it if I did._

_And even if it did pass through the country, and get as far as Baker Street, who says you'd even open it?_

_I can't blame you._

_I need to talk to you so badly. I need to make things right. Is that even possible?_

_If I could just tell you that I_

Sherlock actually whimpered as the last two words were scribbled out so fiercely it was impossible to decipher. He could deduce that the first word had four letters, the initial one being either a capital or one of the taller consonants. The second word was three letters, the first either a y, j, g or cursive z. Sherlock knew what he wanted those words to be, but daren't jump to conclusions – not even now when John wasn't around to prove his hopes wrong. 

The next letter began formally, and was neat – John had obviously intended to send this one at the beginning. 

__221B Baker Street  
Westminster   
City of London, UK   
NW1 6XE 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_How are you? Things are...as to be expected here in Afghanistan. It's hot and horribly windy, and this covert operation makes it hard to feel safe at any time. But I was born and bred for the war, after all._

_I hope things at Baker St are progressing well. How's your work? It feels wrong to wish for some gruesome murders, but that seems to be the only thing that keeps you occupied for any extended amount of time. No doubt you're hounding Lestrade and the rest of the force for all the cases you can get your hands on._

_I trust Mummy Holmes is well, as well as Mycroft_

_Bugger it. I can't do this, Sherlock. I was trying to write a letter that I could actually send but pretending everything is fine is killing me._

_I can't do this. I can't._

John was obviously losing his emotional stability. If he couldn't uphold a facade (however easily dismissed through the shape and spacing of his handwriting) long enough to complete a letter, then what sort of mental stress was he undergoing? 

The next letter began straight away, and everything about it screamed emotional distress. He took deep breaths to steady himself and read on: 

_I remember when I found you hanging from the ceiling in the living room. It was only a couple of days after the Cabbie Incident, and_

_Did you ever deduce how much it broke me to see you dead again? Surely my hysterical panic would have given something away._

_You better be alive when I get home, Sherlock, because I don't think I can live without you any more._

Sherlock had torn the letter in half before the words had properly sunk in. The consulting detective had been investigating a suspiciously missing body in the morgue when John had come home earlier than expected. The doctor had torn the lighting fixture out of the roof in his desperation to get Sherlock down, ranting and screaming hysterically. 

It hadn't been until later that Sherlock even realised how much John would have been affected by seeing him die so soon after their brush with the serial killer. 

But now Sherlock wouldn't be alive and waiting for John to come home...because the doctor wasn't. John didn't think he could live without the consulting detective. Sherlock knew he would survive, but he knew it would be joyless. He had opened his heart but once, and while he would cherish some of his memories until his last breath, it had brought him pain enough to last a life time. 

Folding the torn pieces away, he picked up the penultimate letter and read it with an aching chest. 

_Damn it all! I miss you, I miss you even more than I thought possible. After all I tried to kid myself that I didn't – that there was really nothing to miss, that you were nothing but a sociopathic annoying waste of space... but I can't any more..._

_The thing is Sherlock, the thing is... Oh Christ..._

The vagueness was infuriating, but Sherlock understood he would never know. It was dangerous to jump to conclusions and there was no firm data to be gathered. 

Trembling, he picked up the last letter. The envelope was addressed, but splattered with blood. His heart thumped painfully and he closed his eyes. There were at least sixteen different explanations for the blood, but he couldn't stop his mind from leaping to the worst one. He restrained his wayward conclusions and opened the letter. 

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breath before he hyperventilated. Once it was settled to a bearable rate, he read John's final letter: 

_Sherlock._

_I'm done. Mycroft can bloody well send his barber to finish this job for all I care. I'm coming home and as soon as I finish this bloody letter, I'm going to radio Mycroft's people and tell them to send me home. NOW! _

_I just can't bloody do this any more. This 'mission' is going absolutely nowhere and I can't even remember why I left in the_

_No, I remember. But I feel even more stupid for it now then I did back then. You thought we were dating. How I missed the signs I'll never know. Well, I do – I thought that's just how you were. I thought I was your only friend. I thought_

_Christ._

_I love you. There, I bloody well said it! Well, wrote. I know you don't love me right now, hell you probably don't even like me for what I've put you through. But, damn it, when I get home I'm going to convince you to love me, sociopath or not. Because I'm not letting you go now. I don't care if you're engaged with a baby on the way when I get back, I'm not giving you up._

_You're the only thing that's kept me sane in the God-damned country. Every time I close my eyes, or if I'm exhausted and about to drop – I can see you, frowning at me. I can hear your voice in my head making snarky comments on my day-to-day life. It's probably not the sanest of ideas, but damn it, Sherlock – I need you. I bloody well need you._

_I'm coming home, Sherlock. I'm coming home to_

The rest of the paper was a blood-splattered mess. From the spray pattern, Sherlock could deduce that John had been writing on his knee when... 

He'd been shot in the knee. Who would do that? A scowl settled on his face and he re-read the letter, his anger only growing. 

Sherlock was in a taxi before he could really figure out what he was doing. One sentence circled in his mind, obscuring any other possible thought. He couldn't tell how long the drive had taken. At the same time as it felt like it had gone on forever, it seemed to pass by in a flash. 

Finally, he was running up a marble staircase and through ornate hallways, impervious to the shouts and protests left in his wake. He dodged obstacles, shoving open doors and leaving them to bang against the wall. Mummy would be upset, but at that precise moment he could not care less. 

Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, reading a newspaper. He looked up as Sherlock entered and had almost formed the first syllable of his brother's name before a fist to the jaw sent him sprawling out of the chair and onto the floor. Sherlock shoved the chair aside and was towering over his older brother when he realised he was screaming louder than he had in his lifetime. 

" _He was going to come home_!" 

As the situation sunk in, his knees buckled and he found himself curled up under Mycroft's desk, rocking himself senselessly back and forth, repeating the same four words over and over: John was coming home. 

**Chapter 10: Supernova**

The sensation of waking up with a hand carding through his hair ought not to have been one that caused complete panic. But John had never woken up to it before, and the hand was digging in its nails just a tad too much. 

"Morning Johnny-Boy." Moriarty greeted, tugging none-too gently at a lock of the doctor's hair. 

John whimpered into the gag and pulled away from the mastermind. 

He laughed cruelly and tugged at John's hair again. "You missed Sherlock's big emotional scene, Johnny. He broke Mycroft's jaw and spent three hours hiding under a desk." 

"Ignore him, John." His Sherlock delusion whispered soothingly, distracting John from the sensation of Moriarty's hand with gentle stroking across his shoulders and upper back. 

"Oh, you're mad at me." The mastermind laughed, delighted. "Was it the drug withdrawals or the fact that I fooled Sherlock into thinking you were dead?" 

"It's okay." His Sherlock delusion whispered soothingly. 

"Come now, Johnny – don't be petty. You can't choose both." Moriarty intoned sourly. He clawed at John's scalp and John hissed a sharp breath through his nostrils. 

"John! It's okay." His figment cried, wrapping his arms around the sobbing doctor. 

"You think he's here right now, don't you Johnny-boy?" Moriarty crooned lovingly, "You're so precious." John struggled to get away from him, pressing back deeper into the hard chest of his delusion. "But not to worry, I'm going to let you keep him." 

John turned his face to glare at him, but Moriarty had a serene smile on his face. "Sherlock thinks you're dead, of course, and before too long you will be. I'm not mean though, so I'll let you keep your little delusion until then." He cooed softly, stroking through John's hair once again. "If you had never met Sherlock I never would have had to do this, you know. You really only have yourself to blame." 

"No, John." His delusion whispered fiercely as John felt his guilt and self-loathing rise. "I didn't give you a choice, remember? I stalked you, I forced you into your relationship with me. You can't take any of the blame for this." 

"Cheer up, Johnny-boy. I'll let you see him once last time before I kill you." John nearly choked on bile as Moriarty leant down and pressed a kiss against his temple before leaving the room with a skin-crawling laugh. 

John screamed into the gag, while his Sherlock delusion rocked him and whispered soothing words in his ear. John took shuddering breaths and turned so his face was buried in the thick woolen coat the figment was wearing. "You're going to be okay, John. I won't let him kill you, not when I've just gotten you back." 

... 

Sherlock was stiff with disbelief and then fury as the fake-mobile in his pocket chimed to announce the arrival of a text message. He clenched the phone in a tight fist as he pulled it out of his pocket. 

There were two pips and and an image of the Thames appeared on the screen. He growled and shot back a reply: _What makes you think I'll still play your game?_

The reply came quickly and his abdominal muscles twisted in fear as he read the answer. _Mary Holmes is currently kneeling beside the fourteenth rose bush in the third row from the back in the closest garden to the estate. Do I really have to make boring threats?_

Sherlock swallowed the unhelpful fear and concentrated on the picture. It was the South bank of the Thames, somewhere between the Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. He pulled out his own phone and started searching online, punching in as many key words as he could think of, before slowly culling them down. When that method failed, he checked the news for the area, the police duty log as a last resort. There was nothing! 

Furious, he punched in Lestrade's number and barked as soon as the DI answered: "It's me. Have you found anything on the bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?" He demanded. 

There was a pause, and then: "Sherlock, is this another one of those—" 

"Lestrade, I don't have time." The consulting detective snapped, hating the edge of desperation in his voice. 

"I'll send a couple of officers down to check it out. Sherlock, what's happening now?" Lestrade demanded impatiently. 

"There's another round to be played, Lestrade. Don't be tedious." Sherlock snapped back, standing and peering out the window to see Mummy pruning the rose-bushes. 

"Why would you still be playing? Is John still alive?" Lestrade interrogated gingerly. 

"No." Sherlock returned flatly. "John is dead. Shockingly, he was not the only person to be used as possible leverage." 

"Who else would you care about?" Lestrade challenged dryly, "What, did he threaten your mother?" Sherlock refused to answer, but obviously his silence spoke enough. "Jesus! Sherlock, you're not—" 

"Text me in instant you hear from your officers." Sherlock interrupted shortly before hanging up without another word. He stormed into Mycroft's office and his older brother stood, backing towards the bookcase. "I don't want to hurt you. Get Mummy inside and don't let her out of your sight. If anything happens..." He glared stonily at Mycroft and swept out of the room as his phone buzzed with a text message. 

... 

"The Van-Buren Supernova!" Sherlock yelled into the phone. 

The robotic voice counting down stopped immediately and Sherlock took a moment to slump in relief. However much he knew Mycroft would not let their mother come to any harm (his brother was ruthless, not heartless) he still worried. If the kidnapper could take John from right under the nose of Mycroft's international network, he could probably find some way to infiltrate the Holmes Estate. 

He had to stop this. He couldn't keep playing this twisted game when there were important lives at stake. The kidnapper could threaten Sherlock all he liked, but it wasn't right to go through his loved ones to do it. 

He glared at the phone and typed out three words to seal his fate: 

_The Pool. Midnight._

**Chapter 11: Moriarty**

The leisure centre is quiet. Sherlock's footsteps echo against the tiles as he enters the pool – it's dimly lit with cold electric lighting, the blue of the pool sharp while the poles painted red against the walls appear almost murky. They're silly, romantic observations but as the consulting detective looks around, he can see no one else to judge him for it. 

The equipment is all packed away, and by all expectations the pool should be covered for the night. The room is silent except for the lapping of the pool water and his own rigidly controlled breathing, but there is an inexplicable tension in the air. He knows he is being watched, his usual paranoia is fed by his instincts. 

"I know you're here." He calls out. His own voice echoes back to him, and the tension in the room thickens. There is no answer and his forehead creases in a frown. "Let's try this another way, then." He mutters quietly, taking the phone from his jacket pocket. He rings John's number, and from somewhere behind him there comes a familiar ringtone. 

He turns slowly, restraining himself and making sure he has every movement under control. This is no time to act irrationally. Buried amongst the pool equipment, John's mobile is inside an old plastic crate. He hangs up and begins to lower the phone. The sound of a door banging open tenses his muscles, and he turns his head to take in the figure that enters. 

His heart stops beating and all the breath escapes him in a rush. The consulting detective's brilliant mind runs through every observation he can manage, trying to deduce any other possible explanation. But there is no other explanation – standing there, wrapped in a shapeless parka is Doctor John Watson. 

The moment seems to last forever as Sherlock's adrenal gland kicks in. His hands start shaking and the arm holding the kidnapper's phone aloft drops just a fraction. That seems to shatter everything, and his John's voice crosses to him from the distance between them. 

"Evening." 

... 

" _Very good, Johnny-boy. Now, stand perfectly still. No, keep your eyes on Sherlock. We want him to be uncomfortable. Stay silent. If you speak, he'll die in the explosion too._ " John really wished he could rip the damn speaker out of his ear. Moriarty's voice grated on his nerves as it was, but having it fed directly into his eardrums was enough to set his stomach rolling. " _Face blank, John. I can't have you giving anything away. Now, careful. Repeat after me: 'Evening'._ " 

"Evening." John repeated. Sherlock's eyes sharpened and John blinked rapidly – they'd done Morse-code many times before. He hoped Sherlock would recognise it now. _It's a trap_. He tried to say. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice was strangled and breathless. "How...?" 

"I fooled you." John repeated, blinking still. 

Sherlock turned to face him and slowly started walking closer. He looked around, eyes seeking out something else in the stands above. If he found what he was looking for, he didn't show it. 

"Your hysteria were fun to watch, though." John repeated, tensing his shoulders. "It's just a shame Johnny couldn't watch them." 

"Stop it." Sherlock commanded darkly. 

"Nice touch, this," Sherlock continued to come closer, and John tensed further as he came closer and closer to the bomb, "the pool where little Carl dies. No! Stop right there!" Sherlock froze in place at the command, his expression angry. "I stopped him. And I can stop John Watson too." John followed Sherlock's eyes as they trailed down to the doctor's chest where a red light was predictably wavering over his heart. "Stop his heart." 

Hate grew in Sherlock's eyes and he whirled back around, eyes fixing on a silhouette and shouting: "Who are you?" 

The sound of a door opening behind them set the consulting detective on edge, but he didn't turn until Moriarty began to speak: "I gave you my number." John could only watch Sherlock's expression as the mastermind continued: "thought you might call." Then came the faintest sound of foot-steps, nearly inaudible compared to Sherlock's. "Is that a British Army Browning L9-A1 in your pocket," the consulting detective reached for his pocket and withdrew the named item gingerly, "or are you just pleased to see me?" 

Sherlock swung it in a wide arc and aimed steadily at something behind them. "Both." He replied casually. 

John cringed at the innuendo of that exchange, and it only deepened as the mastermind introduced himself. "Jim Moriarty." He stated calmly, before greeting in a sing-song tone of voice: "Hi!" 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning his head slightly. "I know that name." He said to himself. 

"Jim?" Moriarty prompted, "Jim from the hospital?" Sherlock's glare darkened and he used his free hand to steady the gun. "Huh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But, then I suppose – that was rather the point." The mastermind's voice had grown a sharp edge by the end of the sentence, and Sherlock's eyes flickered worriedly to John. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the gun." Moriarty's voice had gotten its whimsical quality back, and John shivered in cold fear. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." 

Moriarty was coming closer and closer, and the closer he came, the more often Sherlock's eyes flickered reassuringly to John's trembling figure. 

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a _teensy_ glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. What I can do and what I'm capable of if I don't get what I want. You see – I'm a specialist, you see. Like you!" 

" 'Dear Jim'," Sherlock said, his hands steady, " 'please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'." Moriarty's chuckle had a sharp edge to it, and the footsteps kept coming closer and closer. " 'Dear Jim, will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'." 

"Just so." Moriarty returned, amused. 

"A consulting criminal. How...elegant." Sherlock remarked, his voice flat. 

"Isn't it?" Moriarty preened. "No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will." The footsteps took back up again, and John's wince deepened the closer the 'consulting criminal' got to him. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" His voice had taken on its childish, ringing effect and John fought down the bile rising in his throat. "I've shown you what I can do, and soon you're going to give me what I want." 

"And what is that?" Sherlock demanded, voice cold, "What can you possibly want that you haven't already conned your way into having?" 

"You." Moriarty returned darkly. "I cut loose all those people, all those problems – even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. But, no. No, no, no even then you wouldn't. I had to take your little pet before you'd even take notice." 

Sherlock's eyes strayed to John, who tried to get as far away from the mastermind as possible without moving from his place or damaging the structure of the bomb strapped onto him. 

"And I have loved it – this little game of ours." Moriarty continued, "Playing Jim from IT, playing gay – did you like the little touch with the underwear?" 

"You made me think he'd died." Sherlock spat, his voice taught and his face a mask of hatred. 

"That's what people _do_!" Moriarty's sudden roar sent John stumbling forward a step. The red light locked unwaveringly over his heart for a moment as a threat, before dancing away onto the chambers of the bomb once more. 

Sherlock's eyes immediately leapt over. "Are you alright?" He demanded levelly. But there was desperation in his eyes that didn't match the calm demeanour. 

Then Moriarty was right behind him, hot breath gusting over his ear as he said loudly: "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead!" 

John met Sherlock's eyes, trying to reassure him as best he could. He gave a quick nod, and broke the eye contact. 

"I can see why you like him: he's so charming and loyal. It's touching." Moriarty cooed, running a hand through John's hair in an affectionate gesture. John silently gagged and Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes ablaze with hatred as he cocked the gun. "But people get so attached to their pets – it's a shame." Moriarty continued. He pushed John's head down roughly and walked closer to Sherlock. "If you hadn't felt so singularly about him, I might have let him live." 

"I won't let you hurt him." Sherlock vowed, expression cold. 

"You won't have a choice." Moriarty returned darkly. 

As the idea came to him, John kicked himself for the stupidity of not thinking of it before. He raced towards the pair before either of them could figure out his motives and wrapped a hand around the mastermind's neck. "Sherlock, run!" He yelled, holding Moriarty's torso in place. Sherlock stumbled back a few steps, but didn't otherwise move, expression horrified. 

Moriarty laughed. "Good! Very good!" He cried in delight. Sherlock's expression hardened and his eyes danced around the stands. 

"Your sniper pulls that trigger and we both go up." John whispered threateningly into the mastermind's ear, squeezing harder. If he wasn't so weak and the coat so thick, he might've been doing some actual damage. 

"Ought to have expected something like this." Moriarty mused, "But wait – I did." He flicked a gesture towards Sherlock and a red laser settled in the exact centre of the consulting detective's forehead. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson." He laughed. 

John froze up as the obvious threat settled in and (even though he suspected it was a bluff), the wry shake of Sherlock's head had him stumbling back into position at Moriarty's pleased: "Gotcha!" 

The consulting criminal straightened the material of his suit with a defensive: "Westwood." Once re-postured, he started again: "Do you know what happens if I don't get what I want, Sherlock?" 

"John dies." Sherlock returned quickly. 

"He's going to die either way." Moriarty deadpanned. "No – do you know what happens to _you_?" 

"Let me guess: I get killed." Sherlock replied, bored. 

"Kill you?" The mastermind cringed. "Well, no – don't be _obvious_. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it though – I'm saving it up for a special occasion. Besides, I still have so much I could take from you." He stepped closer and Sherlock took a step back. "No, no, no – if you don't obey me, I will burn you. I will burn _the heart_ out of you." 

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock returned steadily. 

Moriarty chuckled, stepping back until he was beside John. He laid a head on the cowering doctor's shoulder and gave Sherlock a content smile. "But we all know that's not quite true." The consulting detective's eyes lit up in a blaze of fury and he stepped closer. 

The mastermind straightened with a grin and stepped back. "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat." 

"What if I was to shoot you now – right now?" Sherlock asked quickly, re-aiming the gun. 

"Well, you could cherish the look of surprise on my face – because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, I really would." Moriarty replied, "And just a teensy bit...disappointed." Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a slight smirk, and John wondered what expression Moriarty was giving. "And, of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He pointed out calmly. Sherlock's face fell just a fraction and Moriarty began to walk, "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." 

"Catch you later." Sherlock intoned carefully, taking a few steps. 

Moriarty's voice was childish and whimsical once again: "No you won't!" 

**Chapter 12: Pool**

There seemed to be another long moment that lasted forever when the realisation sunk in, leaving John floored – Moriarty had left him behind. Sherlock's gaze was steady on the door, gun still aimed in case the mastermind came back in. Then, slowly (too slowly) the consulting detective turned his head and took him in. 

He exploded with energy, wrapping John in his long arms and holding him tightly for just a moment before he moved his hands to fumble with the clips holding the bomb on. "Alright." The consulting detective was muttering, yanking the parka and bomb vest away. 

"Sherlock." He said breathlessly. 

"You're alright!" Sherlock cried, a harsh edge of hysteria grating in his voice. He gripped the doctor's shoulders tightly and looked closely at his face. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." John mumbled vaguely. He whimpered as his knees gave out and he found himself crashing into the other man's chest. "Glad no one saw that." He mumbled into the silk shirt of his once-flatmate. He inhaled Sherlock's scent and closed his eyes to bask. He'd never been able to imagine Sherlock's smell – thinking back, he'd never really smelt it like this before. 

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed, confused. His hands were stroking soothing paths up and down the doctor's back, and his heart rate was gradually slowing to a regular pace. "Saw what?" He pressed. 

"Us. You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool and me, swooning into your arms like some Agatha Christie heroine." John mumbled. "People might talk." 

"People do little else." Sherlock replied, a curl of amusement in his tone. "I'm sure Mummy will find the story adorable, once she gets over the shock that you're alive. Of course, now I'll have to apologise for breaking Mycroft's jaw." 

"Damn." John agreed, grinning. He blinked and backtracked slightly, "Hold on, you're not telling Mummy Holmes that you tore my clothes off, are you?" 

"No, no – we can keep that one to ourselves." Sherlock paused. "Well, maybe Anderson. He was always uncomfortable with our relationship." 

John opened his eyes, blinking. Their 'relationship'. It hadn't been real before, but this time... "Sherlock, listen. I—" John began, but he cut himself off as he saw his Sherlock delusion frowning from the stands. His expression clearly betrayed the fact that he knew something wasn't right. 

"We'll have time for this later. We need to call Lestrade and get that..." The consulting detective broke off, and his heart rate kicked back up a notch. 

Down the other end of the pool, another door banged open and John turned his head to see Moriarty grinning at them. "Don't tell me you actually thought I was going to let you live, Johnny-boy!" He cried, delighted. "Now step away from my Sherlock – I don't feel comfortable him with so close to my snipers' aim." 

John stumbled back, pulling away from the consulting detective's clinging embrace. His eyes were wide with fear as at least half a dozen lasers danced across his torso. He backed into the frame of one of the changing cubicles and slid down to the floor, trembling. 

"He just can't be allowed to continue. He just can't." Moriarty told Sherlock's stiff back. Sherlock looked at John, and his expression was _so sad_ . "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." His voice had regained its skin-crawling whimsical tone and John scowled. 

Sherlock locked gazes with the doctor and his expression grew stony. He nodded tightly and John nodded back, not really knowing what he was agreeing to. Sherlock turned back around, taking John's handgun back out of his jacket pocket. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." He retaliated, pointing the gun squarely at Moriarty. 

The mastermind smiled, unimpressed. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't kill him – that wouldn't get rid of the threat on John's life. His smugness fell, however, when Sherlock pointed the gun downward. John's eyes followed the line down to the bomb vest, still half-concealed in the parka. Of course, the bomb... 

"Stand up." His Sherlock delusion commanded hurriedly in his ear, gripping his arm and attempting to pull the doctor to his feet. "If we don't jump in that pool the instant after I pull the trigger, we might not get out of this alive." 

John wondered whether that thought had even occurred to Sherlock as he clambered to his feet, using the wall for support. The consulting detective and criminal were still at their stand-off, but now Moriarty was smirking in challenge and a muscle was twitching in Sherlock's jaw. 

Finally, the consulting detective smirked, and pulled the trigger. 

"Run! Run! Run!" John's Sherlock delusion bellowed, pulling John's arm as he raced towards the pool. John had enough sense to tackle Sherlock into the pool with him, because the consulting detective obviously had no intentions of doing it himself. 

The cold water was a shock, but John realised too late how close to shallow end of the pool they were. Sherlock's head cracked against the pool tiles and John stubbornly resisted the urge to cry out as a steam of bubbles floated up from the detective's nostrils. Cursing himself, he swum to the detective's prone form and pressed his mouth to the unconscious detective's. 

He pried the sealed lips open with his tongue and blew half his breath into the other man's mouth. Thankfully, his lungs expanded without pause and John would have sighed in relief had they not been under the water still. He frowned in confusion as the situation above the surface of the pool sunk in – mainly, the fact that there was nothing going on. 

He pulled the limp form of the consulting detective to the surface, and as soon as they broke into the air he spotted his Sherlock delusion crouching at the poolside with a worried frown. "The bomb didn't go off." He stated obviously. 

"Why didn't it go off?" John asked, turning to frown at the offending object. It blinked away merrily, untouched. 

"I wasn't aiming for the bomb." His delusion explained blandly. "Come on, get out of the pool before you make me catch hypothermia." He commanded impatiently. 

"Alright, calm down." John muttered, hoisting the dead-weight of his companion onto the edge and out of the pool. 

"John." The consulting detective mumbled, voice husky as he was coming to. 

"I'm here." John answered softly, taking the man's freezing cold hands in his own. 

"Where's Moriarty?" He asked, opening his eyes and squinting around the room. 

"I don't know. I didn't see him leave. I was too busy trying not to let you drown." John remarked, annoyed. 

Sherlock slumped his head back onto the floor, turning to glare at the turbulent water beside them. "Why did you tackle me into the pool?" He asked, confused. 

"I thought you were going to detonate the damn bomb." John replied defensively, "It was the only way I could think of to get us out of the situation alive." 

"You wouldn't have thought about it without me." His delusion remarked petulantly. 

"You, shut up – I don't need your input right now." John snapped impatiently. "We need to call an ambulance, and Lestrade. Moriarty's going to know we aren't dead and he's going to come after me at first opportunity. Can you find a phone or something?" 

"John?" The real Sherlock croaked out, confused, "Who are you talking to?" He asked, before passing out. 

**Chapter 13: Hospital**

"Agoraphobia," one of the therapists commented just outside John's hospital room, "I would also say monophobia, considering his panic attack yesterday when Mister Holmes was sent back to his room, but it appears as if he's developed some hallucination to deal with his loneliness." 

"Did you really have a panic attack when I left the room yesterday?" A deep baritone voice asked in amusement. 

He opened his eyes and turned to glare at the familiar figure sprawled in the suspiciously comfortable armchair beside the bed. He couldn't tell whether it was the real Sherlock Holmes or just his delusion and it had been a tricky issue over the past two days spent in hospital. He'd almost forgotten the ability of his flatmate to walk almost silently with the right shoes and determination – it seemed like sometimes Sherlock popped out of nowhere, and John would talk to the consulting detective as if he were the delusion and only realise his mistake when a nurse came in to scold Sherlock for being out of his own bed. 

Other times his delusion could waltz in and John would guard the darker parts of his psyche until the real Sherlock entered and John would figure out the discrepancy. The doctors and nurses told him hallucination was a symptom of the Benzodiazepine withdrawals, but the consulting detective continued to study his flatmate with scrutinizing eyes. 

"I want to go home, Sherlock." John whispered quietly, closing his eyes against the harsh fluorescents of the hospital room. 

"Yeah, well – so do I. You're the one who's making me stay for observation." Sherlock retorted softly. 

"Well, if you hadn't refused to get a cat-scan, I wouldn't have to." John muttered impatiently. "You could have internal bleeding in your skull, Sherlock – you hit your had against the pool floor very hard." 

"That wasn't my fault. Someone tackled me into the pool." Sherlock retaliated, grinning. 

"Still, I want you to stay just in case, okay?" The doctor replied softly. 

"John, the danger period for internal bleeding is a couple of hours at most. We can safely say I'm fine by now." Sherlock dismissed logically. 

"For me?" John pleaded, searching for another reason Sherlock might pay attention to. "...and Mycroft's paying for the top-notch private hospital in London. The longer you stay, the more his bank account suffers." 

Sherlock grinned, but it wasn't too long before his face fell. "Are you sure you don't want to stay here for the duration of your withdrawal, John?" He asked seriously. 

"Since they can't quite figure out exactly what form of benzodiazepine I was on, they can't tell how long my withdrawal is going to take." John answered rationally. "I could be going through it for weeks – besides, who knows drug withdrawal better than you?" 

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and looked up as Mycroft entered. "Sherlock, what is it you have against your own room?" He demanded impatiently. Ah – not a delusion this time. 

"The heart monitor in the room next time mine makes it impossible to get a decent rest." Sherlock dismissed coldly, and then looked at the doctor with a softened expression, "Besides, John's not in there." 

"You two have got everything patched up then?" Mycroft asked, a teeth-baring grin settling on his face. It must've hurt – his mouth was still swollen and his voice was quite amusing to listen to. John smiled back lazily, taking Sherlock's hand. 

"There are still some things left to talk about, but I think we've mostly covered everything." John answered calmly. 

Sherlock frowned slightly and leaned closer. "John, we haven't spoken about us at all." He informed him quietly. 

John sighed and cast his mind back. Right – all the 'relationship talks' had been held with his delusion. And what was that saying? "Oh. Vivid dreams, I guess?" He tried lightly. 

But the Holmes brothers were giving him matching concerned expressions. But Mycroft's quickly turned dismissive while Sherlock's shifted to calculating. Mycroft took out his notebook and wrote something down, before tucking it away. "Mummy is still waiting for your permission to come and visit you, Sherlock." Mycroft informed him. 

"No." Sherlock answered vehemently, "Mummy stays at the manor under constant surveillance until you catch Moriarty." 

"You will come and visit her once you get out, then?" Mycroft prodded. 

Sherlock looked reluctant, so John cut in: "Of course we will. I haven't spoken with her for six months." 

Sherlock's face softened and he pressed a soft kiss to John's knuckles. "Was there anything else, Mycroft?" He asked pointedly. 

"This." The elder Holmes brother announced, taking an ornately carved walking stick from beside his umbrella outside in the corridor. He held out as he approached the bed, "a token from Us for your diligent service in Afghanistan." 

"And by 'us' you mean the British Government, yes?" Sherlock mocked. 

"Sherlock." John snapped warningly. He took the carved wood and frowned at the heaviness of the wood. He'd half-expected it to be hollow. "Thank you, Mycroft. And pass that on to whoever else's that idea was." 

"Yes, many thanks to Calliope." Sherlock bit off sourly. "Have you finished trying to apologise yet?" 

"Go back to your room and let John get his rest." Mycroft commanded imperiously. 

Sherlock sneered as his brother turned and left, his hand tight around John's. The doctor fingered the carvings as he looked at Sherlock. He looked as if he hadn't slept or eaten in a month which (knowing Sherlock, as he did) was probably close to the truth. 

He faked a yawn and fixed the consulting detective with a tired smile as he propped the walking stick up beside his bed. "I'm knackered." He informed him. 

Sherlock stood and pressed a gentle kiss onto the doctor's temple. "We'll talk in the morning." 

"Try to get some sleep?" John begged, looking up at him. 

Sherlock sighed and nodded, before sweeping out of the room with a flaring dressing gown. John felt a momentary panic of being left alone, but he felt the warmth of another body sliding into bed beside him. "So over-dramatic." His delusion commented dryly, before they both lay down to go to sleep. 

... 

"You should be having this conversation with the real me." His (apparent) delusion commented softly. John frowned. "Of course it's not me. Since when have I shared a bed with you?" The figment continued. "Get up and talk with him." 

John sighed. The excuse he had been using until now was completely nullified by the new walking stick. With a steeled resolve, he swung his shaking legs out of the bed and reached for the gift. It was bit difficult to get used to the new handle, but instead of wasting his energy trying to get used to it, he headed straight out of the room and towards the room he had once been wheeled into to visit Sherlock. (Sherlock hadn't been there anyway, and when he'd asked to be taken back, the consulting detective was in there having strop at finding him missing). 

He froze in the doorway, grip tightening on the handle of his walking stack. 

He knew the difference between nurses making beds and orderlies changing the sheets. He stumbled against the wall, finding he couldn't breathe. The orderly looked up with concern, "are you alright, sir?" 

"Where...where is the man that was here?" He demanded, his voice trembling. 

"Well...he's gone, sir." The orderly replied callously. 

John's breath hitched and he turned back to the hallway, limping as fast as he could to the elevator and hitting the button for the basement before any of the nurses could question what he was doing. 

"You probably shouldn't be doing this." His delusion remarked, blinking into existence beside him. 

"I have to." John managed out, his voice coming out strangled. "I have to see it." 

The doors slid open and John stood blinking at the dim lights of the morgue...did it have to be so morbid? His heart stuttered to a halt in his chest as he saw the body on the furthest table. 

There, stretched out unmoving and ghostly pale was Sherlock Holmes, unseeing eyes staring glassily up at the ceiling. His weak legs gave out and it seemed to take forever for him to hit the wall. Then there was his delusion, standing with his arms around him and muffling his sobs in the thick blue of his long coat. 

"It's okay, John." His Sherlock delusion murmured soothingly, arms holding him tightly. "We'll work something out. It will be okay." 

... 

The worst part of waking up, Sherlock supposed, was the horrible grogginess that accompanied it. It could take hours for the feeling to go away. He groaned and stretched, wincing at the terrified screaming that came from across the room. He sat up to see a pathologist staring at him with bugging eyes from another table. 

He smiled. "Good morning." 

The woman passed out. 

"Right. Sleeping in the morgue. Bad idea." He mused. Shrugging, he stepped over her to get to the elevator and drummed his fingers impatiently against his thigh as it crawled upwards to the applicable floor. He stopped in the doorway of John's room, frowning when a complete stranger now occupied the bed. 

He went to the nurses' station with a growing frown. "Where is John Watson from that room?" He asked, pointing at the offending doorway. 

"He checked himself out four hours ago. He seemed quite agitated, but he went against medical advice anyway." The scowling matron answered impatiently. 

"Did he say where he was going?" He asked. 

"His sign-out address was..." She picked up a form and squinted at the address, "221B Baker Street." 

"Right. Thank you." He said curtly, before sweeping out of the hospital ward. 

He spent the taxi ride in agitation, still not properly focussed after his sleep. Impossibly enough, he felt almost like he hadn't had enough. Why had John left without him? Okay, so _he_ had checked himself out (at the scowling nurse's insistence) but he hadn't left the hospital yet. He had planned on waiting for John. 

He threw a note at the taxi driver and walked away without the collecting the change. 

Mrs Hudson gave him a disapproving frown as she met him in the hallway. "He came home in such a state and refused to tell me where you were." She informed him, irritated. "Said he 'couldn't talk about it right now'. What have you done?" 

"I'm not entirely sure." Sherlock replied blandly, peeling off his gloves and scarf and tucking them in his coat pocket, which he left on the banister. "He's upstairs?" He asked. 

"In his bedroom, dear." She informed him, before Sherlock was racing up the staircase without waiting for the end of her answer. 

He heard muffled crying as he came closer and stepped into the room carefully, closing the door behind him. John was curled up impossibly small on the bed, shaking with sobs. 

"John?" He asked hesitantly, crossing the room and sitting on the side of the bed. 

The doctor blinked at him tearily and sat up, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock's torso and crawling onto his lap. "How could you leave me again?" He demanded, before burying his head in the consulting detective's neck. 

"I'm sorry." Sherlock apologised genuinely. John must be going through a serious case of PTS – this was a bit of an over-reaction to Sherlock checking out of the hospital early. 

"I need you. I need this to be real." John mumbled, nearly incoherently. "I can't get through this withdrawal without you. You can't leave me." 

"I'll stay with you, John." Sherlock promised gently, bringing his arms up to wrap around the still-trembling doctor. 

"I love you, Sherlock." The doctor mumbled into his neck. 

Sherlock had to control his intake of breath before he grew light-headed. His heart raced and he felt his mouth growing into a wide grin. Thinking how inappropriate it was to be smiling while John was so clearly distraught, he rearranged his face to a serious expression. "You too." He returned, kissing John gently on the temple. 

He told himself the fact that John starting sobbing harder than that was a coincidence. 

**Chapter 14: Reflection**

"How much of this should I be taking?" John asked his Sherlock agitatedly, jerking hands holding the clear bottle up to his eye level. 

"Oh, for – just let me." The consulting detective snapped impatiently, snatching the apparatus from weak fingers with a frown. He drew a precise amount out of the bottle and handed the syringe back to the doctor. "Are you sure you don't want to go 'cold turkey' with this, John? It will be quicker." 

"No." John snapped quickly, sliding the needle into his veins. It was easier, in the drug-haze, to forget the sight of the consulting detective in the morgue. It was easier to believe that his delusion was the real Sherlock. His grief and withdrawal would be intertwined so by the end of them both, he could have a (relatively) clean break. 

"Tell me when you start coming down, okay?" His Sherlock commanded sternly, checking the doctor's pupils with gentle fingertips on his face. 

John considered resisting the urge to pull the consulting detective the rest of the way and kissing him fiercely. He conceded – it was his own delusion and he'd damn well use it how he needed. He grabbed his Sherlock's head and tugged him closer, closing his eyes as he prepared to graze the too-pale lips with his own. He met a sharp cheekbone instead. 

"Not until you get better, John." His Sherlock reprimanded gently, pressing a soft kiss to the doctor's temple. "Tea?" 

"I'm not thirsty." He snapped back petulantly, opening his eyes to glare at the head of messy black curls disappearing into the kitchen. He curled deeper into Sherlock's armchair and picked at the threads of a sofa cushion as a familiar dreamy feeling overshadowed his awareness. He muttered nonsense syllables darkly and buried his face in the cushion, inhaling the thick scent of 'Sherlockyness'. 

He hated the effects of this drug, hated feeling stupider than he already was. He blinked up at the blurry image of his Sherlock at the ceramic clink of a mug being set on the coffee table. He slurred some sentiment and closed his eyes again. He felt gentle hands taking him from the armchair and leading him across the living room to the sofa. 

He felt himself pulled down until he was lying atop his Sherlock's hard torso, the steady thump of a heartbeat in his ears. The Sherlocky smell was stronger here on the couch than the armchair and he felt an involuntary smile tugging at his lips. "Love you." He mumbled into the silky fabric of his Sherlock's shirt. 

"You too, John." The deep baritone voice rumbled through his Sherlock's chest and he ran a lazy hand up and down the contours of the hard chest, humming unrecognisable tunes until he was lulled into a deep sleep. 

... 

"John?" Sherlock called the doctor's name worriedly, coming to stand behind the man. The doctor's face broke into a happy grin at seeing the consulting detective's reflection in the mirror, but as soon as his eyes strayed back to his own reflection he frowned, vexed. "What's the matter?" The consulting detective asked, concerned. 

"Have I always looked like this?" John asked, ghosting a finger over his reflection. 

"Yes." Sherlock answered carefully. "A bit more aged, but that's understandable considering the circumstances. Why do you ask?" He pressed soothingly. 

"It doesn't look right." John muttered, agitated. He tapped the glass impatiently and turned to look at Sherlock with a dark expression. 

Sherlock put a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "Another symptom of the—" 

"Yeah, I know!" The doctor snapped furiously, jerking away from the touch. "I know." He repeated with clenched teeth. "And the only reason you know is because I know – god, I'm such an **idiot**!" He snapped, clenching his fists. 

"No you're not, John." Sherlock assured him softly. There would be time to figure out what the rest of the sentence was supposed to mean later. He pulled the doctor into his chest, adjusting to the jerking limbs as they became an issue. 

The doctor whimpered in obvious pain and Sherlock sighed, unable to withstand hearing his John in pain. "Come on, it's about time for another dosage." 

... 

Thinking back, Sherlock should have thrown the phone out the moment he saw it sitting on their coffee table. He should have ignored it when it chimed. He definitely should have deleted the text message. But, no, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and now he glared impatiently at the screen as it showed John curled up in foetal position in the armchair Sherlock had long since claimed as his own. 

The single pip had alerted him who it was from, and the picture that had appeared on the screen had set his adrenaline pumping. 

A short text had appeared a moment later: 

Outside. 

He hesitated, and another one came in: 

Don't do anything stupid. 

Any threats will be dull and 

obvious. Outside now. 

He'd swallowed his fear, kissed a sleeping John on the forehead and headed outside to meet with the non-descript black sedan that was idling at the curb. He was not surprised by the anaesthetic gas that was filtered through the air conditioning five minutes into the drive. 

He'd been here for approximately twenty seven hours and fifty-three minutes at this stage, and still hadn't figured out the puzzle. It was rather fortunate that he didn't have a set time limit, but it was possible that the time limit would be a fatal one for his John. 

He took out the doppelganger-phone and stared at the text message again as if it would give him some sort of clue. But it was merely a photo of John sitting in the hospital, staring intensely at the empty armchair Sherlock had spent so much time in. What was wrong with the photo? What was the mystery he was supposed to be unravelling? 

The photo was obviously a screen-shot from a security camera, but other than proving they had no privacy, it gave away nothing. It was cropped carefully – just John and the empty armchair. Moriarty _wanted_ Sherlock to win this game (there was no doubt about that, the consulting criminal's motives were entirely transparent), do there had to be enough data in the photo and the surveillance video to give the consulting detective the answer. 

If only he knew the question! 

He paced back and forth in the tiny room, pulling at his hair as if that would help his thought process. He turned back to glare at the screen, where John was slowly stirring, face contorted in pain and hand clenched around his knee. The leg that had once sported a psychosomatic limp and now had a real injury. 

Sherlock growled impatiently and sat on the hard-backed chair facing the screen. 

An annoyed scoff sounded from the doorway and Sherlock jumped to his feet, turning to glare as Moriarty entered with a hateful expression. "You're highly disappointing in this round, Sherlock." He scolded in his unnatural pitch. "If this were anyone else but John, you'd have it figured by now. Your..." his mouth pulled up in an ugly sneer, " _emotions_ are getting in the way." Sherlock glared stonily back at him, refusing to acknowledge the implications. "Why didn't you just _think_ , Sherlock?" 

"It's a picture of John staring at nothing!" Sherlock snapped furiously. "I can't deduce the puzzle from this!" 

Moriarty sneered once again. "He's not staring at nothing. The question is _what_ he's staring at, Sherlock." He spat icily, "Or, rather – who?" He smirked and turned from the room. 

Sherlock scowled as he processed the new information, turning back to the surveillance screen. What – or who – was John supposed to be staring at? 

**Chapter 15: Five**

John was clutching at his leg and muttering himself, eyes locked on the couch as pain-filled tears dribbled from his eyes. Sherlock scowled and flipped the doppelganger phone in his hands. How was he supposed to figure out what John was looking at? There was data enough to figure it out, it was just a matter of deciphering the data. 

The doctors had claimed that John was delusional, so obviously he was seeing _something_ in the armchair. But (as Moriarty had stated) what or who was it the doctor thought he was seeing? He flipped the phone back over and frowned at the photograph. 

The intense expression on John's face was not uncommon - he had fixed Sherlock with the very same one almost constantly since their reunion at Moriarty's hand. So, no clues there. When had the delusions occurred then? Difficult to deduce without speaking to John directly, but that would inevitably be against Moriarty's rules. He had come into John's hospital room numerous times during their short stay to find the invalidated doctor talking to his delusion, but his one way conversations had ceased as soon as John had spotted him. He hadn't noticed John addressing anyone who wasn't present since their return to the flat, and he had kept to the doctor's side as constantly as they could both stand. 

He growled in frustration and gripped at his hair - "Think, Sherlock, think!" He scolded himself angrily. 

He tried to recall the reason the hospital psychiatrist had supplied for John's delusion. Something about monophobia? According to her, John had regressed into his delusions whenever Sherlock left the room. 

"Damn it!" The consulting detective swore impatiently. Why did everything come back to _him_? 

His racing mind slammed to a halt and he gave a self-deprecating grin. His emotions always did get in the way when it came to thinking rationally about John. He took a deep breath. "He sees me." He announced his findings resolutely. 

"Disappointing." Moriarty remarked from the doorway. "It took me _seconds_ to figure that out." 

"I've finished your game," the consulting detective spat angrily, "now let me go." 

Moriarty laughed, his higher pitch ringing in Sherlock's ears. "After all this, you actually thought I was going to let you go back to him? Come on, my dear, you're better than that." He stated coldly. "You knew Johnny-boy wasn't going to survive this. I told you both plenty of times." 

"What was the purpose of this round?" The consulting detective demanded hatefully. "Every other round was proving something: how we were made for each other, your international status, the fact that nobody no matter how famous was above your influence and the casual spending of your bank account. What was this round meant to prove?" He shouted. 

"I'm not cruel, Sherlock." Moriarty replied in a tender voice. "John means nothing to me other than the threat he posed. I have no real ill-will towards him," he explained, his voice sickly sweet, "so I let him keep his idea of you. If it makes you feel any better, he took great comfort in it." 

"Stop referring to him in past tense." Sherlock snapped furiously, taking an involuntary step towards the criminal mastermind. He tensed his muscles and clenched his jaw. He was usually so controlled! Everything about this game was setting him on an edge. 

"It is _slightly_ premature, I suppose." Moriarty agreed, before he fixed a delighted grin on the screen behind them. "But not for long." 

Sherlock whirled around to the screen, eyes growing wide and a strangled scream being torn from his throat as he saw two hooded figures enter the living room of flat 221B, while John was stretched out with his eyes closed on the couch. 

"What do you think? Six minutes? Eight?" Moriarty asked conversationally. 

"John!" 

... 

The footsteps on the stairs were initially dismissed. John was too busy trying to ignore the electric shocks shooting up and down his spine. But then his Sherlock delusion was leaning on the armrest and whispering furiously in his ear: "Now is not the time to be an idiot, John! You're a solider, you need to fight." 

He swallowed, and listened with a trained ear to the tread on the stairs. Two men, a decent height and build. He stood as casually as he could and limped over to the other arm chair, where his cane from Mycroft was still leaning against the arm rest. God knows what had happened to his handgun after the swimming pool, and any of Sherlock's really dangerous traps took too long to set up. 

He picked it up and hobbled back to the couch. He lay out lengthways and prayed they hadn't brought guns. The door opened gingerly and they crossed the room rather stealthily. How they thought him asleep after he'd just banged across the room he'd never know, but he purposely kept his breathing deep and slow. 

He waited until they were leaning over his body and judged their locations by their shallow, excited breaths. He swung the cane up and struck the first man in what he hoped was the temple area. Opening his eyes and scrambling to his feet on the couch cushion he assessed the situation as quickly as he could before giving over to his war-honed reflexes. 

There was a knife-welding man laying dazed on the floor, a red lump beginning to rise near his hairline. The second man was lunging towards him and he stepped aside, and the second knife sliced through the couch cushion. His knee screamed in protest, but at least the adrenalin counter-acted the withdrawal symptoms. He swung out with the cane again, but the second man had expected this. 

He gripped the cane in one hand and gave it a sharp tug. John toppled, knees and elbows slamming on the floorboards with a loud bang and a sharp pain that numbed his limps. He rolled over and continued to fight with the man over possession of the cane. He kicked and used every underhanded he manoeuvre he could attempt which may not have been noble, but he _was_ fighting for his life. 

The man tried to pry John's hand away from the handle, but in doing so twisted the wood. The handle popped out and while John silently cursed the shoddy workmanship of Mycroft's gift, the hoodie-wearing stranger cried out in pain. He stumbled backwards, hand dripping with blood. 

John frowned in confusion and looked at the supposedly-broken cane, only to see a shiny metal blade. He tossed the wood leg of the cane to reveal the long dagger that had been previously concealed. Taking back his curses and replacing them with grateful thanks, John clumsily lunged at his attacker. Obviously spooked, the man turned tail and fled out of the flat. 

John stood shakily and crossed to the first attacker, who was trying unsuccessfully to get to his own feet. Using his weak leg, he swept the man's feet out from under him and held the knife to his throat. "Moriarty, yes?" He guessed stonily. The hoodie fell back as the man nodded desperately. "Tell Moriarty I'm not a player in his sick game." John spat icily. 

"Please, mate, I gotta family!" The man cried out, desperately. 

"You _have got_ a family." John corrected, unimpressed, before delivering a sharp kick to the man's temple. 

**Chapter 16: Goodbye**

Sherlock, an undeniable city boy, had never learnt how to drive. With the thousand-cabs-on every street quality of London, he had declared it unimportant. But no taxi would stop for him in his blood-covered state and two hours of searching had revealed that Moriarty's warehouse was not plumbed. He cleaned his hands with a bottle of water lying around and took out his mobile, texting the only person he hated asking for help. 

Mycroft's nondescript vehicle slid into place mere minutes later, and Sherlock was uncomfortable to see the government official himself strapped in the dark interior. "You _left_ Mummy?" He demanded outraged. 

"I believe your instructions only pertained as long as Moriarty was a threat." Mycroft drawled, eyeing Sherlock's clothes in distaste. He sighed and produced a tailor's box. "Best not return to Watson in such a state. We want to cure him of his delusions, not traumatise him further." 

Sherlock scowled, but changed into the identical version of his clothes without protest. 

"You have a plan, I assume?" Mycroft prompted, sounding bored. 

"Yes." Sherlock answered shortly. At Mycroft's hard stare, he added: "Not that it's any of _your_ business, Mycroft." 

"Sherlock, how do you intend to allow me to make up for my perceived misdeeds if you won't allow me to help?" The elder Holmes asked impatiently. 

"By never becoming involved in his life ever again." Sherlock answered coldly, adjusting his cufflinks with jerky movements. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You know as well as I do that's not going to happen." He replied blandly. "At the very least, tell me your plan. I understand emotional reactions better than you – I could be of some assistance." 

Sherlock frowned, running through all of his brother's possible motives before sighing in resignation: none of them were particularly vicious, and Mycroft would probably get Mummy on his side anyway. "John is a serious man." The consulting detective explained, as emotionlessly as possible. "He has very high standards for his mental health. He doesn't truly wish to be delusional, and now that he is no longer under the whims of his addiction his own brain will be ready to convince himself of the truth. I'll return to 221B and eventually his delusion will solve itself." 

"That could take months." Mycroft pointed out grimly. "John will think _you_ are his delusion." 

"I am convinced he will trap himself into revealing the truth." Sherlock answered coldly. 

"Still, this business has gone on for far too long." His older brother answered shortly, checking his pocket-watch. "This is a situation that needs to be absolved soon." 

... 

John was unsettled to see Mycroft sitting in his armchair when he returned to the flat. He was fiddling with his umbrella, looking impatient. His Sherlock was sitting in the adjacent armchair, scowling petulantly at his older brother. 

John sighed in annoyance. "A little prior warning would be nice." He snapped at Mycroft. 

The elder Holmes turned to glance at him. "Which particular incident would you be referring to?" He prompted blandly. "My arrival or the cane?" 

"Both!" John cried, fury churning in his gut. "Listen, Mycroft – this is _my_ life. It's none of your business." 

"My brother is my business, and given your relationship with him, so are you." Mycroft answered 

"Whatever my feelings were for your brother don't matter any more." John answered, trying to ignore the stab of pain at their words. "Please, just get out." 

"John. Sherlock isn't dead." Mycroft interrupted with a bored tone. His Sherlock's eyebrows shot towards his hairline, and his jaw dropped a fraction. 

John was on the verge of blowing his top when the elder Holmes' words sunk in. "What do you mean?" He asked warily. 

"Precisely what I say." Mycroft answered sourly. 

"Not funny." John growled, clenching his fist on the handle of his cane. "I saw him, in the morgue." 

Realization and guilt flooded his Sherlock's expression, but he chose to ignore that until the elder Holmes had left. 

"Is it possible you saw something else and misinterpreted?" A voice sprung up behind him. He turned to see a too-familiar figure leaning against the door. His cane toppled to the floor and he stumbled as his injured knee tried to give out. 

"Sherlock?" He managed out, strangled. 

"Yes?" Two voices asked. He turned to stare weakly at his Sherlock sitting in the armchair across from Mycroft, his fingers steepled, then back to the consulting detective in the doorway. 

"How?" He choked out, terrified. 

"My brother has a habit of sleeping in the most inconvenient places." Mycroft answered dryly, not looking up from his umbrella. "A _morgue,_ Sherlock?" 

"It's quiet." The consulting detective answered softly, eyes locked on John's. 

"John," his Sherlock called hesitantly, "will you turn around?" 

John ignored his delusion – it wouldn't do to talk to the imaginary while Mycroft was around. "Where have you been?" He asked. 

"Here, for the most part." The consulting detective answered, giving him a fond look. 

"Moriarty." The delusion answered from across the room. 

"God, I _needed_ you!" John swore, clenching his fists. "I needed the _real_ you, and I thought the only one I had was—" He broke off with a sob and fell forward, letting the delusion's arms hold him steady. 

"You always had me." A familiar deep baritone rumbled through the chest he was clutched against. 

"Is he that far gone?" His delusion's voice asked softly, sadly. 

"It would appear so." Mycroft commented dryly. 

John froze, muscles tensing. He looked up at the consulting detective's eyes and found them sad. "You _do_ need the 'real' me." He whispered gently. "And when you need _me_ again, you can find me." The tall brunette leant down and pressed a soft kiss to John's lips, and the doctor sobbed. 

Gradually, he became aware of the fact he was leaning against the door, the only arms wrapped around him his own. He straightened, turning back to the two (real) Holmes brothers sitting in the living room. " _You_ would be the real one, then." He stated, staring at Sherlock. 

"Yes." The dark-haired man answered softly. 

John nodded stiffly. "And you weren't dead?" He prompted. 

"No." Sherlock answered quietly. 

The ex-army medic crossed the room and stood in front of his flatmate. He stroked a hand across his jaw softly and glanced at Mycroft. "And he's the real one?" 

"Yes. I endorse that fact." The elder Mycroft replied blandly. 

"Good. Wouldn't want this to go to waste." John commented. 

Sherlock gave the doctor a hopeful look, before John's fist met his face and sent him sprawling back into the armchair. 

**Chapter 17: Finale**

Heaving a sigh, John released the majority of his anger. At the least, he owed Sherlock an explanation. Leaning heavily against the 'cane', he eased his way down the stairs and into the living room. He paused in the doorway, falling back on the old habit (first in the military, and then running after Sherlock) of assessing the room. 

Mycroft was nowhere to be found, which John was grateful for. The consulting detective was sitting at his desk, looking out the window. His laptop was sitting to his side, the lid closed. The only light was coming from the streetlamp outside the window, bathing the room in a sickly orange glow. 

John thought of berating the consulting detective about ruining his eyesight. When he drew his breath to speak, he changed his mind and sighed it back out. He hobbled to his armchair and sunk into the seat, wondering what to say. How was he supposed to explain everything to Sherlock? 

Finally faced with the situation of being back at Baker Street, everything back to what resembled normal...he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how close his idea of the consulting detective came to being Sherlock himself. He couldn't guess what the youngest Holmes' reaction would be to anything he could say. It was terrifying...did he really love Sherlock? Or was he merely in love with what he had made the consulting detective out to be? 

He shook his head and kept his eyes on the consulting detective, who hadn't moved since John had entered. He frowned as the thought came to him: "Are you asleep?" 

The answer was short and soft: "No." 

The silence lulled between them. Outside the window, the sounds of the city went on. Quieter than he remembered, so the windows must have been replaced with thicker glass (probably courtesy of Mycroft, the snob). Downstairs, Mrs Hudson was watching recordings of Eastenders, if the theme music was anything to go by. There was a dripping tap in the kitchen. With just the electric humming and breathing of his captors to listen to, he'd never realised he could miss 'everyday' noises. 

If he tried really hard, he could remember the bubble of chemicals in the kitchen, or the precise notes of Sherlock's violin. The flat seemed empty without the added 'Sherlock' sounds. 

But the consulting detective was across the room, impossibly still and quiet. As it grew longer, John became almost scared to break the silence. He thought maybe Sherlock would be calm, would listen to John's explanations with an eager ear. But he also worried that Sherlock would snap, start one of their screaming matches that led to silent treatments that lasted for days. He wasn't even sure which one of these reactions he wanted. 

So he sat watching the youngest Holmes sit and stare. 

He considered talking once or twice more, but changed his mind before the words could form. Without warning, Sherlock stood and went into the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with John's regimental mug and a plate of take-away. He placed them on the coffee table in front of John and went back to his chair at the desk. 

John's "thanks" was almost inaudible, but Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement and said nothing. He went back to his staring while John ate the meal. As soon as he finished, Sherlock was taking the dishes away from him and whisking them away to the kitchen. He returned back to his desk, all without a wall or even letting John see his face. 

He leant back in his chair, the warmth of pasta that tasted exactly like Angelo's a comforting weight in his stomach. As the sounds downstairs turned off and the sounds outside began to taper down, he felt his eyelids drooping. Sherlock didn't move as he drifted off to sleep. 

He dreamt he was running through an Afghani Desert, the heavy weight of a patient draped over his back. Then he stumbled onto the cold tiles of the pool, and the weight on his chest was a bomb. He looked up to see Sherlock pointing the gun at him, his eyes locked on Moriarty. "No, please! Sherlock, don't!" He begged. 

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." Moriarty growled out furiously. 

"Then perhaps my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock deadpanned, nothing but boredom in his expression. 

"Sherlock! No!" John cried desperately, before the bullet flew and burned through his shoulder. He cried out as fire overcame his whole body, and screamed – staring as the consulting detective stood stoically, consumed by flames. 

Then, slowly – under the sound of Moriarty's maniacal laugh: a low, melancholy note from a violin. The dream gave way, leaving only the unknown melody and blissful darkness. 

He woke up with a late-afternoon sun shining in his eyes. Sick of the sun, he rolled over and frowned in annoyance. When he eventually opened his eyes, it was to see Sherlock sprawled in a hard-backed chair beside the bed. His eyes were wide open, but glassy and unfocussed. John sat up, frowning at the dark red stains on his Sherlock's face. 

He froze at his own thoughts – best stop calling Sherlock 'his', even in his own head. The man was not his delusion, and even on the off-chance they were truly in love with each other, Sherlock did not belong to him. 

He finished sitting up and narrowed his eyes to focus on the blood caking the consulting detective's face. "It's not broken." John jumped at Sherlock's voice, and met the suddenly-focused eyes. "It was a good punch – nosebleed, but no break." 

"That's good." John agreed awkwardly. Normally he would apologise, but he refused this time. Sherlock's sad resignation made it clear he understood and accepted. "Let's get you cleaned up." He suggested, getting unsteadily to his feet. He picked up the cane with weary submission and began the awkward trip down the stairs. 

He didn't ask to swap rooms for the same reason Sherlock didn't offer – they both knew he didn't want to surrender to his invalidity. He would climb those stairs every day, no matter how much it hurt. 

The bathroom was chilly, and Sherlock had to sprawl awkwardly on the floor so John could sit on the lip of the bathtub. It was a strange tableau – and if it were anyone else it would feel uncomfortable. But it was Sherlock...and it felt safe, comfortable... 

It felt like coming home. 

John sighed as he pulled the damp cloth away from the consulting detective's face. "If you let me think you've died again, I'm leaving. No exceptions." He announced resolutely. 

Sherlock looked guilty and looked at his bare hands before nodding. 

John went back to cleaning away the blood from the consulting detective's face. "Moriarty?" He prompted hesitantly. 

"He is no longer concern." Sherlock promised vehemently, his eyes dark. 

John nodded in acceptance and wiped away the last of the blood and tossed the cloth in the sink. Sherlock looked up at him with a sad smile and John patted the cold porcelain beside him. The consulting detective nearly (only nearly) scrambled in his hurry to take a seat beside the doctor, finally on an even level. 

"This isn't going to be easy." John warned gently. 

"I know." Sherlock added quickly. 

John frowned at him disapprovingly, and sighed in annoyance. "No, Sherlock – I'm serious," he snapped, "things are going to be difficult. As soon as everything sets in properly, I'm likely to have some form of breakdown." 

"John." 

"The whole 'gay' thing is completely new to me. I don't know how different it's going to be compared to being with a woman – and then there's the fact that it's _you_. I'm not even going to mention how Mycroft's going to use this to his advantage. Harry's going to—" 

"John." Sherlock interrupted calmly. 

"Would you stop interrupting me, please?" John snapped hysterically. "It was hard enough trying not to worry myself to death when you didn't eat or sleep when we were just room mates. I don't know how I'm supposed to cope with that now that we're going to be partners. Above and beyond that, I still have to figure out exactly how much of my feelings for you are real or delusional. And not to mention the fact that—" 

"John!" Sherlock interrupted loudly, gripping the doctor's violently shaking hands between his own. "John – I _know_." He repeated pointedly, meeting the doctor's eyes steadily. 

There was a moment of quiet between them, as John _looked_. He could see understanding and determination in Sherlock's icy-blue eyes, both trying to cover the skitterish fear lingering underneath. It was the fear that reassured him in the end, and he cupped the sculpted jaw with a weak hand. 

"I'm going to kiss you now." He announced softly. 

The fear seemed to grow, but Sherlock nodded carefully, closing some of the distance between them. John breached the final gap, pressing his lips against the dehydration-pale ones of his once-stalker. 

It was nothing short of awkward. Sherlock had no clue how to hold his head, or precisely what to do with his lips. He seemed utterly lost when John tried to bring his tongue into play, so the doctor retreated it hastily. Neither knew what to do with their hands, so left them clasped in the consulting detective's lap. 

Finally, they broke apart and looked at each other. The bewildered expression on Sherlock's face was priceless, and John found himself giggling softly, giddy. After a beat, Sherlock's own chuckles joined in and they were laughing at each other, leaning on the other for support. 

Eventually, their laughter tapered off, and Sherlock pressed a hesitant, chaste kiss on the doctor's lips and gave a contented smile. "Dinner?" He offered. 

John smiled. "Starving." 


End file.
